


The Morning Dew Creeps On In

by Aylwyyn228, layersofart (layersofsilence)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Creepy Alexander Pierce, Gaslighting, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 16:23:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21431176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aylwyyn228/pseuds/Aylwyyn228, https://archiveofourown.org/users/layersofsilence/pseuds/layersofart
Summary: The Pierce Memorial Hospital had a reputation. Amongst medical professionals it was the height of modern care, an example for all psychiatric centres to aspire to. Steve had mostly heard the other rumours though, the ones from the inpatients.  Be careful what ya say. Do as you’re told. If you don’t they’ll send you to Hydra. No one ever came back from Hydra, they said.All Steve knew was that Abraham must have pulled in a whole heap of favours to get him this appointment, and he absolutely could not screw this up. But it’s only a matter of time before Steve comes across the hospital’s most secluded patient. Bucky Barnes, Pierce’s skittish nephew, and Steve’s missing lover.When Steve had failed to follow him across to sea, to fight for freedom in someone else’s country, he’d thought there were only two options, that either Bucky would come back to him, or he would die, now he realised that there was a third option. The Hydra.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 24
Kudos: 89
Collections: Captain America Big Bang 2019 | cabigbang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my submission for the Cap Big Bang 2019, featuring art by the wonderful LayersofSilence, who was very patient with me missing every deadline! 
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful ShinyNewPenny, who had to try and make sense of my weird out of sequence ramblings and vast numbers of typos! 
> 
> Enjoy!

**1919**

Bucky was shivering, but he was pretty sure it wasn't because he was cold. He’d been half buried in snow when they found him, and even now, ten months later, curled up in clean German sheets, he couldn't seem to shake the ice on his bones. He shifted, all the shivering was tearing at the wounds in the back of his left shoulder, burning fire through the ice. It had felt like he was being torn apart when he first reached Munich, and they had started to clear out all the mud and filth and shrapnel. 

Sometimes, he could still feel it. 

Malin must have heard him, because she was there all of a sudden. She always heard all of them, whether they were breathing hard from the pain, or from the nightmares. And she was always there. 

Bucky thought he might love her, loved her like he loved his own mother. 

She always said that the men in the Lazarett were her boys. That she hoped wherever her Jochen was, he had found a woman who was a mother. 

“Sit up, Liebling,” she said, and let him sip at the laudanum she kept by his bed. 

He felt the world start to slip away from him. 

“You must are lucky,” she said, and her lips twisted up. It meant that she wanted to smile, but couldn’t quite find it in her. 

He matched her anyway.

Lucky. They’d called him lucky before, because they thought he wouldn't survive the trip in the back of the troop transport. When he’d been rattling around and screaming for two whole days. One of the other men, ashy pale beneath the dirt on his face, had been muttering Pater Nosters under his breath the whole way. 

Bucky didn’t know who he’d been praying for, but it had made him think of Stevie.

“Lucky,” he repeated and she nodded. 

“The Americans are coming tomorrow, mein Lieber. You all go home.” She was squeezing his hand, his good hand, the one he could still feel. “Du bist glǖcklich? Lucky?”

He licked some moisture onto his lips. “Happy.”

“Happy,” she agreed, and fed him more laudanum. 

***

Becca had thrown her arms around him when she saw him. Her long grey skirt getting tangled in his legs. “My God, I thought you were dead!  _ They _ thought you were dead!”

She’d shown him the letter later. All very official and impersonal. 

_It is my painful duty to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office notifying the death of (No.) __32557038_ _Sgt. BARNES J. B. _

_ The report is to the effect that he was KILLED IN ACTION on 3rd MARCH 1917 _

He’d read it over and over again, after dark, when the rest of the household had turned in for the night, trying to decide whether or not it was true. 

The warmth of the welcome had quickly worn off, however. Not that… He didn’t blame them. Becca and her husband, Robert. Robert was an amiable clerk in an accountants office. Bucky had never had the chance to meet him before he’d shipped out, but he seemed like a good man. He worked long hours, and was kind to Becca, and their little girl. 

He was polite to Bucky.

But Bucky… Bucky knew that he wasn’t the same anymore. He couldn’t be. Couldn’t ever be. The world existed around him behind ground glass. He couldn’t touch it any longer. Time passed around him but didn’t connect. 

He felt unreal. Like he’d died in the field the way they’d said, but his body hadn’t got that letter, and intended to keep on walking and breathing until it did. 

His arm burned and screamed, caught forever in the blast, and some days he could barely think for it. At night, he froze and dreamed that he’d never been found. That he was still buried in snow, screaming and watching men march over him, pushing him further and further into the mulch with every step. 

He woke the baby every night, crying like a child. Woke Robert and Becca along with her. 

He heard the two of them arguing from their room, as he turned over and tried to blank it out with the memories of machine gun fire. 

He wanted to leave them in peace. To leave them like the ghost he was. 

He and Becca had tried to find Steve. 

Because more than anything else, he wanted to go home. He wanted to wrap himself up in Steve’s arms and let his lover wipe everything away. He wanted Steve’s voice in his ear, and Steve’s skin beneath his hand. 

But Steve was a ghost, as much as he was. Becca had written letter after letter. Steve had disappeared off the face of the earth. He no longer lived at their shared address. The landlord sending back a curt response that he hadn’t lived there for a year at least. 

Their neighborhood had changed beyond recognition, with dead husbands and dead sons, and rents unpaid. They could find no one who could give a forwarding address. 

Steve had moved on, and left Bucky in the mud and the snow. 

Bucky wished him luck, and prayed that it wasn’t Spanish Flu that had carried him away. 

Prayed that he was happy, and safe.

Steve was the only future he’d ever wanted. Ever planned for. Without him, Bucky had nothing left. 

He wanted to leave, had told Becca as much, but she’d just given him that pinched look, the one she’d inherited from their mother. Told him not to be such a fool. 

She was right. There was nowhere for him to go. 

He couldn't work, couldn’t sleep. Some nights, he couldn’t breathe for the smell of blood and smoke. 

He was dead already. 

He just hadn’t stopped moving yet. 

***

“Bucky?” 

He jumped, his heart thudding like he’d sprinted at a foxhole. Jumped at  _ Becca’s _ fucking voice. Christ, he was fucking pathetic. 

She was looking round the door, her hair still done up neat from where she’d been shopping. 

It’d got dark, he realised abruptly, since he’d been sat. 

She reached up to turn on the lamps and there was a faint hiss in the pipes before they flickered on. “Can I come in, Bucky?” 

He forced a smile that had too many teeth. “Sure, sis.” 

She came to sit next to him, tugging the base of her gloves up a few times. He could hear the scrape of fabric across her skin, the rustle of the fabric of her skirt.

“I need to talk to you. I should have done before really but-” She took a deep breath, and tugged her gloves off fully. “I don’t know why I didn’t really.” 

He reached across and took her hand. His own seemed too big against hers, like she was some woodland creature and he had hunted her… Then she pressed her other hand over his and the moment was broken. She was Becca and he was Bucky and he was glad that she was here. 

“I got a letter. Last week,” she added as an afterthought. “Grandfather passed. Ma’s father.”

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically. 

“It’s alright,” Becca squeezed his hand. “I don’t remember him really.”

No, she wouldn’t, he supposed. She’d have been too young. 

“Do you?” she asked, and he nodded. 

He’d been a severe man. Very tall, but that might just have been in his memory. He’d been very, very young the last time he’d seen him, before all of the arguments. 

Becca started stroking over the back of his hand. “It was six months ago now. I don’t suppose they had any way to find the next of kin, after everything. The will just came through though.”

He found himself nodding. 

“He left everything to you, Bucky. Do you understand?”

He looked at her then. Her pinched face and her dark eyes. She was looking at him earnestly. 

He cleared his throat. “Why?” 

She shrugged loosely. “There was no one else, I presume. With ma and pa dead, and Aunt Abigail. He was a widower… It doesn’t matter, he left it to you.”

He looked away. “I don’t want it.”

Becca sighed, hard. “James, don’t be a fool.”

“You should have it.”

“He left it to you.”

“But I don’t want it.” 

Becca threw his hand away and stood up. “You were always impossible when you were like this.” 

He frowned. “He was mean to our parents, and to Aunt Abigail and Uncle Alexander.”

“He didn’t like them marrying out of the faith.” 

“Marrying shkotzim, you mean.”

“James!”

He shrugged. He’d heard that word enough as a kid. If he was going to get called it, then he thought he at least had a right to say it. 

“Families argue, Bucky!”

“For twenty years?” 

“For God’s sake, Bucky!” Becca had finally lost her temper. “Everyone is dead, it doesn’t matter anymore!” She sat down heavily, and rubbed at her eyes. “I thought you were dead.”

He groped for her hand again. “I’m right here, Becca.” 

She nodded, and let him tug her over into his chest. 

He wanted to stroke her hair at the same time as he held her hand, but his useless fucking arm didn’t work right. 

She had her face pressed into his throat. “I want you to take the money, Bucky. I’m alright. Me and Robert and Hannah, we’re all fine.” She sat up and cupped her hand to his jaw. “It’s you I’m scared for.”

He shook his head.

Becca squeezed his hand again. “Take the money. It’s yours. He left it for you, and I don’t want it.” 

He loved her, so, so much. “Alright.” 

It wouldn’t be forever. He would repay her, but for now, he’d do as she asked. 

He pressed their foreheads together. 

“How did they find us?” he asked.

“Uncle Alex.”

He sat back. “Alexander?”

Becca nodded. “After everything, I wanted to invite him to the wedding, and we stayed in touch. When the will was read, he wanted to get in contact with you. I’d told him you were back, of course.”

He nodded. His memories of Alexander were a little clearer than his grandfather, but not much. 

“He wants to see you,” Becca carried on, “it’s been so many years, and after Aunt Abigail’s passing he hasn’t got any family.” 

He didn’t really want to see anyone, ever again, but he could recognise that Becca was scared for him, and he couldn’t be beholden to her forever. At some point, he’d have to find some way to carry on. 

“Alright,” he said easily. “Invite him over.”

***

Uncle Alexander was and wasn’t exactly as he remembered. He was older, of course, his hair faded and light, but his face was the same. More lined, more sad, but the same under that. Bucky couldn’t remember how long Aunt Abigail had been dead. Eight, or nine years perhaps. She had been young but not tragically so, no younger than his own parents. 

“Nephew,” Alex smiled expansively, “and Rebecca, my dear.”

He embraced Rebecca lightly, mindful of Hannah on her hip. 

“It’s good to see you, Uncle,” Becca smiled, as Alex fussed a little over Hannah. She was babbling, pleased with the attention. 

As they sat on Becca’s couch, he turned his attention to Bucky. “I haven’t seen you since you were this tall,” he laughed, holding his palm at his knee. “How are you, James?”

Surviving, he wanted to say. Existing. 

“I’m fine. I was sorry to hear about grandfather.”

Alex laughed again. “I wasn’t. A frightfully old fashioned man. I hadn’t spoken to him in years. I don’t imagine you remember him at all.”

Bucky smiled tightly, as Becca poured them coffee. 

"Wealthy, at the end, of course. Thank you, my dear." Alex took his cup from Becca. "Yours now, my boy." 

Bucky thought the skin of his cheeks might split open from the fixed grin. 

Alex was taking sugar cubes from the table. Two. Three.

"You haven't had too much wrangling with the solicitors?"

Bucky looked up. It took him a couple of seconds to realise Uncle Alex was speaking to him. "I haven't…" 

"My brother hasn't had a chance to go over it all yet, Uncle." 

"Oh, but you must take the matter in hand, my boy! Can't be sitting on all of that, letting solicitors take a larger and larger cut." Alex crossed his legs. "I can help you there. You only need ask."

"Bucky hasn't been well, Uncle," Becca interrupted. 

Alex sat up, all concern. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear it." 

He could feel Alex's eyes fall down onto his left hand, and Bucky felt his skin start to crawl under the scrutiny. He had to fight not to tug at his sleeve. His hand was clawlike and pale, tendons showing sharp and white where they were pulled up weirdly. 

"I had heard, of course, about your captivity. It's a dreadful thing." 

"It was alright," Bucky heard himself saying. Better than being on the frontline in any case. 

He didn't say it. He knew what it made him sound like. He wondered if some of it showed in his face though, because something changed in Alex’s expression. 

“It’s terrible,” he said, “but then I’ve heard of some of the boys turning a pistol on themselves in order to secure a medical discharge.”

“Bucky was a prisoner of war,” Becca snapped, as if that ended the argument. 

Alex smiled. “I meant nothing by it, only that I had heard the conditions were beyond imagining.”

Bucky didn’t have it in him to answer. If they were beyond imagining then they were most definitely beyond words.

“I run a hospital,” Alex said as he helped himself to more coffee, “I have heard a lot of things from the boys that came back.”

“I bet,” Bucky said. His throat felt tight. 

“Oh! That’s right,” Becca said, as if she hadn’t noticed the tension in the room at all, which was a damn lie if he knew Becca. “I meant to ask, Uncle, my brother’s injuries have been bothering him, do you know of anything that could help?”

“I’m unfortunately neither a surgeon or a physician. I would be happy to enquire though.”

“You’re a headshrinker.” Bucky looked over at Becca in betrayal. 

She was deliberately not looking at him.

Alex laughed. “You could say that. How have you been sleeping?”

“Fine.” 

“Bucky!” Becca’s hand was hard on his knee. “He doesn’t sleep, Uncle. Not at all. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re not taking the laudanum I got for you!”

Bucky shrugged. “I don’t like the way it feels.”

“But you like waking up screaming in pain? Bucky, really, I’d have thought you’d have been a better patient after dealing with Steve.”

He met Alex’s eyes, and knew in a second that he’d been seen through. His arm might hurt, but that wasn’t why he’d been screaming. 

Alex was watching him closely. "You know, lots of men prefer not to convalesce at home."

"I'm fine." He knew the growl in his voice was contradicting him. 

"Of course you are," Alex smiled. "Strong boy like you."

Bucky had a feeling he was being laughed at.

***

"You weren't honest with Uncle Alex," Becca said, as they were clearing up the crockery. 

"It's none of his business." 

"He's a doctor, Bucky. And he's family."

“You’re family,” he said, as if that was an answer.

"I just want you to be well, Bucky. Whatever it takes. I don't think you've smiled in weeks. You walk around here like a…" 

Her voice broke a little. 

He heard what she hadn't said.  _ Like a ghost _ .

He crossed the room and hugged her, because hugging wasn't talking. And she was warm against his ice.

"What can I do?" She asked, into his chest. "Anything, and I'll do it."

“There’s nothing you can do,” he said simply.

***

When it came to a head, a couple of weeks later, he couldn’t say he wasn’t expecting it. Surprised perhaps, dully, but he’d known he wasn’t right. Not anymore. 

He’d been curled up in a ball of misery for most of the day. His arm burned with every movement, and he couldn’t find it in him to battle through it. He had watched, feeling useless as Becca had bustled round with Hannah on her hip. Doing washing, and cooking, humming to herself. 

He hated himself, and found comfort in the hating, because it meant that he didn’t have to try. 

Wondered again if it wouldn't have been better to die out in France. 

He’d taken the laudanum, that evening, worn down by a day of barely being able to move but not being able to sleep. He was exhausted, even though he’d done nothing. 

He was always exhausted. 

Later, he wanted to blame the laudanum. For messing up his head, for sending him to sleep, but he knew in his heart that it wasn’t the laudanum. It was just him. 

His dreams were bizarre, surreal. He was running mostly, through corridors at first, then out in the woods. His steps grew heavier and heavier, sinking through mud and dirt, and his lungs burned, his heart burned. 

He fell. 

He was flat on his back and he couldn’t breathe. There were shadows in the gun smoke, and they’d slit his throat if they found him. Slit his throat and steal his gun and he couldn’t move. 

He couldn’t  _ breathe _ . 

A light came on and he was awake. Awake and he still couldn’t move. Panic gripped him because he was awake and he couldn’t move, back broken and helpless like the German they’d found in the rubble of the farmhouse, wriggling like a goddamn bug on its back.

“Bucky!” 

Becca was shaking him, shaking his bones back into place, but he still couldn't breathe, it was gas, it must be gas, they couldn't breathe it in, Becca couldn't breathe it in, she couldn't, she'd cough and cough and bleed. 

And he threw himself up, pressed his hand over her face because she mustn't breathe. She was struggling, hitting his chest but she didn't understand. She mustn't breathe it in!

His chest was heaving as he sucked in air. As… 

"Let go! Let her go!" 

He felt a little dizzy. He let his hand drop from Becca's mouth, still dragging her close against him. 

Someone was shouting.

But he could breathe, there wasn't any gas, because he wasn't…

He could hear Becca talking, distantly, through a fog. "Robbie, it's fine! Stop, it's fine." 

Robert… Robert was there, in a nightshirt, brandishing a… a poker...

He let go, as he realised.

Becca stepped away, her hand still outstretched warding Robert away. She turned to face him, the bottom of her face was slightly pink where… 

"Bucky, it's alright. It was a dream. It was just a dream." 

He sat back down, heavily, like his legs didn't work anymore. 

Because it wasn't just a dream. He'd been awake.

It  _ couldn't _ have just been a dream.

***

He was huddled up behind the dresser when she came to find him. She didn’t speak to him. Just sat on the bed he’d vacated. 

“Are you scared of me?” he asked. 

“No.”

“Robert is.”

She didn’t deny it. 

He tucked his knees up to his face. “You’ve a right to be."

He heard her sigh. “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of what’s in your head.”

“I’ll leave.”

“Bucky, no. Be sensible. I’m not just going to let you walk out onto the streets.”

“I can’t be here if I’m going to hurt you." 

"You didn't hurt me." 

"If Robert’s gonna… Robert wants me out.”

She was shaking her head before he finished. “No, he doesn-”

“I’m not deaf, Becca, whatever else I am. And he’s right to want to keep you safe.”

“Well, what if I want to keep you safe?” she snapped. She rubbed her hands over her eyes. She stood up, and came to sit at his side, like she had when they were small. 

She was a warm weight all the way up his side. Her head dropped onto his shoulder. “You’re my brother, I love you.”

“I love you too.” He leaned back into her. “You want me to go with Uncle Alex.”

“I want my brother back.” There was a long, long pause, and she groped blindly for his hand. She wiped her face on his shoulder. “I want Hannah to know her uncle.”

He sat up, looked at her. Really, really looked at her. “I would never hurt her.”

“I know that,” she said instantly, and he knew from her eyes that she wasn’t lying, “but might you hurt yourself?”

He opened his mouth to say ‘never’, but stopped. Intentionally, no. But if he was like last night, scared out of his mind, trapped somewhere else in his own head?

“I want you well,” Becca said simply. “If that’s here, then it’ll be here,” she squeezed his hand as he tried to interrupt. “You’re my brother. You’ve got a place here no matter what. But if you need to go away to get better, to be well again, then that’s what we’ll do. Whatever you need.”

She was so sincere. 

There was no question really. He couldn’t stay, not if he could hurt Becca. Not for Hannah to grow up scared of the madman in the other room. He wanted to be better for them. For the first time since the mortar, since he realised he had lost track of Steve and had no way of finding him, he could see a future for himself. A future that he wanted. 

“I’ll go.” He said simply. “I’ll go, and get well.” 

Becca smiled even though she was crying. She squeezed his hand so hard it hurt. “And then come back.”

“And then come back,” he agreed.

***

Alexander was expansively welcoming when he arrived, showing him his rooms and sitting talking with him late into the night. 

It was nice, after everything. For months, for years, everything had been about death, the things he’d seen, the things he’d done, what had been done to him. Seeing Becca again had been a balm to his soul, but she wanted to talk about it. She wanted him to be alright, wanted him to pretend to be alright. 

Alexander never asked for anything, they didn’t discuss it. Focussing instead on politics, on literature, on science. Bucky found himself enjoying their evenings, found it easier to slip back into himself. 

Alexander spoke to him like he was a man, not a lunatic cripple.

It didn’t, of course, solve everything. His arm pained him constantly, throughout the night. It was a constant nauseous ache, and it had developed a tremor which he couldn’t control. He couldn’t move it voluntarily at all. 

It was mottled and pale, like some dead thing. And he hated it. 

Hated everything. 

He couldn’t get a grip on his temper. It burned up inside him sometimes, out of all control, and when he was screaming and rowing, throwing himself around like a child, it felt like he watching himself from deep, deep inside his own head. 

Watching a puppet of himself going unhinged. 

And there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it. 

***

“My name is Bucky,” he said once, when Uncle Alex called him James, yet again. 

Only his mother ever called him James, and she was dead. 

Alex shot him a patronising smile. “Now, James, you’re a man now. There’s no more time for schoolyard nicknames.” 

Half the men who’d called him Bucky were dead now. Shot and suffocated and bled out like animals. If it was good enough for them, he didn’t see why it shouldn’t be good enough for anyone else. 

But he ached for an easy life, and Uncle Alex would not be swayed on it. Would refuse to answer him, and would hold silence against him, until he longed for their nightly talks. 

Eventually, he just answered to James. 

It didn’t matter much anyhow.

***

“Sergeant Barnes.” The man bowed a little over formally. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

He was a small man, slightly rotund, and with an amiable face. James didn’t trust him an inch.

“James,” Alex said warningly. 

James held out his hand. “Good to meet you too.” 

Zola didn’t seem to catch his tone. “I am here to see that your affairs are kept in good order during your convalescence.”

James frowned. “You’re a lawyer.”

Zola smiled. “Yes, is that a problem, Sergeant?”

“Dad always said you shouldn’t ever trust a lawyer.” 

“Yes,” Alex took a seat at his side, close enough that James could feel the warmth of his hand through the back of his shirt, “I’m unsurprised that your father took that view.”

“What’s that-”

“Dr. Pierce,” Zola cut over James, “if we could leave the familial spats, my rate does not pause to allow for them.”

Uncle Alex looked slightly rattled. This Zola must be a certain kind of man to be able to dictate to him. 

“Wonderful,” Zola said, to the silence. “Now to the matter, I have been able to get a hold of the papers relating to pay you are owed from your time in captivity, as well as the pension you’re entitled to.” 

James looked up, “I was discharged?” 

He felt Alex’s hand on his back. “It was a medical discharge, James.”

James stared at him. “It should be leave, surely?” 

Uncle Alex sighed at him. “We’ve talked about this, your arm won’t recover, James. You’re to see the surgeon next week.” 

“But, what-”

“As I was saying,” Zola huffed, “regardless of the reasoning, you have been discharged and you are entitled to a military pension. Now, obviously you can’t manage your own affairs.”

“Whaddaya mean I can't-?”

Alex was patting his back again. "Now, James, I've told you. Complete rest is needed. I can find you a hundred doctors who would tell you the same. You mustn't excite yourself, or push too hard." 

"Yeah, but this is…"

"James, Rebecca entrusted you to my care, and you agreed to it." Alex squeezed his shoulder. "Now, Mr. Zola, please continue." 

Zola spread out a ream of papers in front of him. "I have contacted the bank and arranged for your pension to be kept in trust until you leave this hospice.” 

James stared at the papers, the words swirling into legal gibberish in front of him. He looked back up at Zola. His ma had kept a stash of dollars stuffed into her mattress, whatever was left after their bills had been paid. James didn’t think he’d walked into a bank in his life. 

“In trust..?”

“It just means that the responsibility for the money and any taxation or investments, rests with the law firm.” Uncle Alex was patting comfortingly at his back. “You won’t have to deal with anything. You can just concentrate on your recovery.”

James was still staring at the papers. “But…”

“The inheritance can of course be paid into the bank, as well, until you decide how best to put it to use.”

“Into the bank?”

Alex laughed, and though it was not unkind, it certainly held an edge. “Come now, James, what are you going to do? Keep money like that squirrelled away in a shoebox under the floorboards? You’re a man now. My nephew, and we have entered into a new age.”

“I want Becca to have it.”

Alex laughed again, but Zola cut him off. “Your loyalty to your sister is commendable, but as your lawyer, I must caution you not to make any rash decisions, particularly while your health is delicate.”

“But Becca needs-”

“James,” Alex said sharply, “I understand your feelings on the matter, but with the greatest of respect, you have no experience of financial dealings. Money like that could set you up. You could launch a business venture or invest. You must think about your future, as well as your sister’s. Particularly as you cannot work manually any longer. She has a husband to see to her affairs, you must see to yourself.”

James flinched a little and looked down at his hand. The muscles had wasted it into a claw, tendons stretched tight in his wrist. He’d only ever been good for laboring, for soldiering. What on Earth was he going to do now?

He realised abruptly that his good hand was shaking. 

“You see, my boy, you’re in no fit state.” Alex’s hand was on his back again as he sighed. “Arnim, enough of this for today. You’re taxing my nephew too much, he is not well.”

Zola shook his head, primly. “I mean no harm, once these papers are signed the responsibility will no longer be yours.” Zola was looking at him seriously. “I am no physician, like your uncle, but such things are complex even with a strong mind. It would be better to postpone any decision making until you are quite well. I would recommend that the money be put into trust with the bank, until you are ready to deal with the practicalities of it.”

James looked towards his uncle. 

“You need rest, my boy.” Alex shook his head sadly. “I want only to see you back on your feet. Mr. Zola has been my personal and business solicitor for almost fifteen years. He knows what he’s about and how best to handle the banks.” 

James looked at the paper work again. Pages and pages, enough to make his head spin. He was tired, and it was oh so much easier to let himself sink back into following orders. 

He didn’t want to think about it. 

He  _ did _ want to rest. 

With his hand still shaking, he picked up the pen. 

***

There was something wrong with him, James knew it. He barely slept anymore, felt too tight in his own skin after everything. Complete rest, Uncle Alex had said. The chance would be a fine thing. 

The nightmares that had begun at Becca’s were now almost constant every night. It was absurd that he felt more trapped and frightened now than he had as a POW. 

When Alex came in to see him that morning, he had frowned. “You don’t look well, nephew.” He said, without preamble. 

James, who was wrapped up in every blanket he could get his hands on, crushed in between the foot of his metal framed bed and the wall, scowled. “I don’t feel it.” 

Alex sat on the bed. “When did you last sleep through the night?”

“Munich.”

Alex sighed. “James, would you come here?”

Reluctantly, James left his nest, and sat at Alex’s side. 

"I worry about you, my boy, you know that," he could feel Alex watching him. "Some of the men here take paraldehyde at night, to help them get rest and heal." 

James' first reaction was revulsion. He hated drugged sleep. It felt empty and heavy and too much of it bled into the waking world. 

Like reality was a fever dream. 

He remembered Sarah Rogers rambling at the end, lost long before she'd stopped breathing. 

And he remembered the last time he'd taken laudanum...

But he was tired, achingly, bone numbingly tired. And the thought of blurring the edges was a seductive one.

He wasn't sure he wanted to feel better anymore. He didn't really want to feel anything at all.

***

He and Uncle Alex didn’t really talk anymore. 

Well, Alex talked. He drank his coffee in a drowsy haze, and listened. 

He still enjoyed the evenings though, listening to his Uncle’s warm voice. Brock Rumlow, the orderly, never spoke to him, never spoke at all as far as he had heard, and he saw no one else. He would miss it, he thought, if his uncle withdrew his company. 

So he learnt that there were some opinions he should keep to himself. 

***

Often, when he woke he would be back in his room. 

There was something unsettling about being moved in his sleep, as if reality would shift around him if he didn’t watch it close. 

***

The surgeon, when he came, looked more like a butcher than a physician. He was ruddy faced, and red haired, and had a booming, authoritative voice which would have been more suited to selling his wares on the street than explaining the nuances of nerve damage. 

“It’s gone for sure, and that’s a fact,” he said, turning over James’ forearm in his hands and sending shooting pains up the joints of his wrist. "I'm surprised the arm survived the initial injury, in all honesty. Make a fist," he said, speaking directly to James for the first time. 

James tried, and got nothing more than a burning pain for his efforts. 

"You see, Alex? Motor nerves are shot to Hell, and they don't repair." He pulled James around to show the puckered scarring on the back of his tricep. "Would've been that one that did it, I'll wager. It's neat work, I have to say. The Krauts patched him up, you say?" 

James didn't look around to see if Alex nodded.

The surgeon was manipulating his wrist again. “Holler when you can feel this.” He started squeezing up the flesh. It wasn’t until he passed above the elbow that James could distantly feel the pressure. 

The surgeon grunted like that was what he expected. “I’d say have it off.”

James shivered. “What?”

Behind him, Uncle Alex hummed. “Is that really necessary?” 

The surgeon sat back in his chair and pulled out a fat cigar. “There’s extensive nerve damage and paralysis.” He turned to James. “You’ve said you aren’t sleeping from the pain? That’ll only get worse. It’s doing no good, Alex. The muscles have atrophied, and I’d lay money on the blood supply being compromised. I’ve seen too many limbs go bad to say leave it.” He sucked hard on his cigar. “Of course, it’s your choice.” 

James rather thought it was his choice, but even if he knew that, he also knew that it wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference in the end.

***

“It’s psychosomatic,” Alex said, when he threw up for the fourth time that week, “like the phantom pain.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

He’d huddled himself right up into the corner again. Alex told him there was nothing to be afraid of, nothing to hide from. But he wasn’t hiding, the pressure from the wall and the metal bedframe kept him from floating away. Reminded him that he was real. 

Alex was seated on the bed, where he always sat. “It’s not real. It’s in your head. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Bucky looked at him slowly. “Well, that’s a fucking lie, isn’t it?”.

***

They gave him more meds, so he could sleep, so he would wake. 

“You must rest,” his uncle said. 

They sprayed him with icy water, let him shiver himself warm, shocking out a fever. He lost where he was in the cold. Lost  _ who _ he was. 

He felt like he'd been cold all of his life.

***

"You must rest," his uncle said and locked him in the dark. 


	2. Chapter 2

**1923**

Steve steeled himself as he walked up the gravel drive towards the old manor house. It looked like something out of a novel, like Jane Eyre or Dickens. 

Or Poe, he thought wryly as he trailed his gaze up to the dark, shadowed windows. 

He had to make a good impression. Couldn’t let Abraham down. 

He knew Abraham had put a lot on the line for him, it wasn’t easy to push a kid from Vinegar Hill through education, let alone get him a position at the hospital of the renowned Alexander Pierce. 

Hell, he’d likely be dead without Abraham. 

So he absolutely had to make the most of the opportunity that Abraham’d found for him, using his own reputation as capital, no less.

Pierce was a man who came with a reputation all his own. The Memorial Hospital was called the best in the county, one of the best in the state. It took the absolute worst of cases, those who had been beyond the help of all others. 

It was known for never having any trouble, for bringing peace and calm to patients who had been able to find it nowhere else. 

However, amongst the sick Steve knew it had a different reputation, as well as a different name, Hydra. 

He’d been training under Abraham for barely two months before he’d heard hushed whispers of it. 

_ Be careful what ya say. Do as you’re told. If you don’t they’ll send you to the Hydra.  _

No one ever came back from the Hydra, they said. No one who goes there is ever the same.

He'd asked Abraham, of course, and though he'd looked uncomfortable, he'd had nothing damning to say. 

Pierce catered to those who had no place anywhere else. The ‘terminally insane’, as Abraham had put it, with a slight note of distaste in his voice, where they were at least kept comfortable, and safe from themselves.

It was at that moment, Steve realised later, that he first decided he would go to the Memorial Hospital, to help people the rest of the world had turned their backs on. It was what his mother would have wanted. 

It was what he wanted for himself. 

And now Abraham had given him that chance… If he could just charm Pierce. 

When he arrived at the main door, he was greeted by a surly dark haired man who did not offer a name. The corridors inside were broad and airy and bright, looking nothing like he’d expected from the looming exterior, nothing like the rumors he had heard. 

He was led in silence to an office bearing the brass nameplate ‘Dr. A. Pierce’.

When the man knocked, there was an affirmative shout from within, and he was admitted without saying a word. 

The man seated at the desk was older than Steve had been expecting, older than Abraham, perhaps in his late sixties. But he had the look of someone still not quite out of their prime, someone who had been athletic and robust, and who had not yet passed into frailty. 

He was handsome, in a distinguished kind of way, and Steve found himself matching Pierce’s warm smile. 

“Erskine’s prodigy.” Pierce stood and offered his hand. His grip was unforgiving. “You’re not what I expected, I’ll give you that. Abraham usually favors a more bookish type. What was your name again, son? Roberts?”

“Rogers, sir. Steven.” 

“Ah, yes.” Pierce looked him up and down. “Scholarship was it? Field?”

“No, sir.” Steve sat down in a chair opposite as Pierce gestured. He wondered what had given him away. He wasn't ashamed of where he’d come from, but he'd quickly learnt that the world was much easier if you let people believe you were the same as them. 

"It was Dr. Erskine, sir," he added in response to Pierce's look.

Pierce beamed widely. "A benefactor! Well, no need to be ashamed by that, my boy. Shows character! Any dolt can breeze his way through the world on his father’s money. Erskine clearly saw something in you."

Steve could feel his ears start to heat up. “I don’t know about that, sir.”

“No.” Pierce leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. His eyes were intense. “Never downplay your achievements. The world is filled with those who would be quite happy to see men like us brought low. Never apologise for where you came from, or for how high you climb.”

Steve didn’t really have an answer to that, and Pierce seemed to realise he had said too much. He sat back with a slight laugh. “You can see it strikes a personal chord with me.”

“I understand.”

Pierce was once more cool and controlled. “Now, it is an odd choice of vocation, for a boy of your background.” 

Steve couldn’t quite place whether that was a question or not. He decided to answer regardless. “My mother, sir. She worked in the sanatorium.”

“Ah, following the family tradition.”

Steve nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“But not your father?”

Steve bit back his answer, the old memory of humiliation bubbling up in his chest. He couldn't count the number of times he’d tried to join up. They’d signed Bucky up on his lunch break, on his goddamn lunch break and off he went. 

Over the sea where Steve couldn’t follow. To die in some godawful ditch somewhere in France at nineteen years old. Alone.

“No, sir,” Steve answered finally, when he felt like he had managed to control the bitterness in his voice. 

Pierce didn’t react at all. “Are you married, Rogers? Children?”

"No, sir!" Steve answered instantly, before remembering he was twenty four years old and it was perfectly reasonable that he might have married.

"Quite right," Pierce said. "Young men settle too young. No sense in that until you've found your place in the world. It changes a man once he chooses to settle." 

There was again something very open in Pierce's voice, which Steve couldn't ignore. "Are you married, sir?" 

"My wife sadly passed."

"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, I-" 

"No need for that." Pierce was smiling again. "You had a right to ask like for like. And I'm no hysterical widow." 

"I am sorry, though, for your loss."

Pierce didn’t answer. “Well, you come highly recommended. Doctor Erskine and I trained together, did you know that?”

“Yes, sir.” 

Abraham had little good to say of him, but Steve wasn’t going to bring that up.

“Please,” Pierce rose from his chair, “Alexander.”

Steve forced a smile and took his offered hand. 

“I expect great things of you.” Pierce’s grip was hard again. Steve made an effort to stand firm. “I expect you’ll find your feet quickly enough.”

***

Steve took the opportunity to walk into town the next day. It was a fine morning, bright and clear, and he was pleased to find that it was a pleasant trip. A thin road, that was better described as a track, and which almost certainly saw primarily farm traffic. It took around half an hour before he started to see buildings on the outskirts. 

The town was full of pastel fronted buildings and pretty maple trees. He allowed himself to wander a little. It was late enough in the year that there was a smattering of leaves on the ground which hadn’t yet turned to mush, and as much as he missed the city, he could appreciate the aesthetics of small town life. 

He decided that it might be pleasant to come down here to sketch, and to take coffee in one of the diners on the main road.

He browsed through a couple of the shops, making mental notes of where to find items he would undoubtedly need later, and picking up a few supplies. He would have food provided, of course, but his mother’s voice in his head told him it was always prudent to keep a few basics. 

Afterwards he strolled down to the post office to send a telegram to Abraham. 

The hospital felt very isolated to Steve, out in the sticks. He was used to the bustle of the city, and the hospital was on its own for miles around. 

It didn’t have a telephone, which Steve didn’t suppose was too odd, but it meant that there was no way to contact anyone without walking into town.

It was the most alone Steve had ever been. 

He guessed he’d get used to it.

The post office was a tiny affair, a little counter with a frail looking postmaster behind it, and a couple of desks along the wall for patrons to compose letters or organise themselves. 

Steve debated for a couple of minutes whether to send a telegram or a letter, but the telegram won out. It was more expensive, but this town was so out in the sticks that post was sent only twice a week to the city. A telegram would arrive this evening. 

Steve tried to convince himself that speed was the reason, as he tried to work out how to condense his message to less than fifteen words. 

In truth, he knew that it was the memory of Bucky. How excited he’d been when his pa had brought him home an old engineering book which explained how telegraphs worked, and how they could send a message across the ocean, could send a message to Peking or Timbuktu if they wanted. 

Bucky had finally managed to send a telegram from London, just before they’d embarked across the sea. His excitement had been clear even through the clipped language. 

Steve had sent one back of course, though he never knew if Bucky had received it. 

Now, he’d have the chance to send another. 

He gave his message to the postmaster. 

ARRIVED SAFE ALL WELL STOP LODGING AT HOSPITAL STOP REPLY AT FAIRBANKS PO STOP

He thought that covered everything.

The postmaster squinted a little at him. “You up at the Hydra?” 

Steve smiled, it never hurt to make a few acquaintances among the locals. “Yessir, just took up a position.” 

The postmaster frowned as he dealt with the payment. “They say there’s queer stuff goes on up there. They say the Devil lives in the woods up by the Hydra.” 

Steve smiled. His ma had always been fond of a good yarn. “Well, I don’t know about that.”

“Well, we keep our doors locked when there’s a blue moon.”

“Seems… sensible,” Steve said, wondering how he’d ended up in a place where people kept their doors  _ unlocked _ more often than not.

“Will you be wantin’ the boy to run up to you when you get an answer? It’ll cost a dime.”

Steve shook his head, still a little bewildered. “There’s no rush, I’ll check in when I next come down into town.”

And if he didn’t have some reason to leave the hospital, he just might go stir crazy himself.

The postmaster hummed, like that might be a long, long time away. 

***

Steve settled into a routine fairly quickly. The job wasn’t difficult, he was mainly tasked with seeing to the welfare of the patients. Dr. Pierce carried out all treatments, while Brock Rumlow, the man who’d met him at the door that first day, and who hadn’t cracked a smile since, was in charge of keeping the peace whenever anyone was disruptive. 

Steve was left with the rest, which suited him just fine. 

He liked the job. He liked talking and getting to know the patients. He felt a great swell of pride whenever he managed to get a smile out of one of them. Whenever he got the impression that he’d improved someone’s day, even a little bit. 

The majority of the residents had nervous troubles. Rumlow, on one of the few days when he could be considered almost amiable, had told him that the community of the hospital was made up largely of veterans, in stark contrast to his experience before he himself had been drafted, of lunatics and other madmen sent to be hidden away by relatives. 

There were a few men who could be considered to be lunatics still in residence and Rumlow’s patience always extended far more to them. Sometimes when Rumlow lost his temper with those he considered weak-willed and shell-shocked, Steve wondered whether it wasn’t the mirror that they held up to himself which Rumlow found so hateful. 

When he looked at Rumlow sometimes, Steve thought that it was pure chance that he had managed to return to this side of the locked doors at all. 

It was well into Steve’s second week that Steve finally heard the rumours of another patient who stalked the hallways.

He’d received Abraham’s reply a few days earlier, clipped but warm with congratulations and wishes of good luck. He’d been pondering his reply, wanting to give him some of the news, and had decided to switch to letters for more nuanced correspondence. Telegrams were useful for speed, but Steve had never really got Bucky’s excitement towards them. 

The decision made, he’d settled down to complete some of his reports for Pierce’s records, but he found himself distracted by drafting Abraham’s letter in his head. 

That, and being unable to ignore the chatter of the men seated just outside his office.

His office was right next to the day room, where the men could spend their free time if they were well enough. It meant that Steve could keep an eye on them, but also that he was often dragged into their discussions, whether he was busy or not. 

“I say it’s a phantom.” Tim Dugan said, around the cigarette that was hanging loosely from his lips. “A spectre.”

From what Steve could see of him through his office door, Jim Morita looked mortally offended. “And I’m tellin’ ya, I ain’t been seein’ no ghosts. Now, you gonna deal these cards or what?”

Dugan started slowly dealing, laying the cards out with infinite precision. “If he was here, then we’d’ve met him properly. Gotta be a spectre, old building like this.” 

“He’s pale like a ghost,” Gabe said, still looking a little shaky after the faint spell he’d had that morning, when he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Steve had been keeping close watch on him since then, though it seemed to have passed for now.

Jim snatched up his cards. “He’s flesh and blood! I ain’t been seein’ things. I ain’t no loon!”

There was a snort from over on the couch where Monty was huddled up with a dog eared novel, and a beat before the men over by the table caught up with what Jim had said. After that, all Steve could hear from his office was Dugan’s obnoxious laughter and Jim’s frustrated “Aww, Hell with y’all!”.

Steve smiled and tried to concentrate on finishing his report. 

“What about Rogers?” Dugan was clearly tryin’ to be quiet, but Steve’s attention was always going to be caught by his own name. 

“What about him?” Jim said. 

“Well, if that ghost’s a real guy, Rogers will know about it.” 

Steve was clearly not going to get anything done now. He put down his pen and waited patiently for his name to be called. 

“Hey, Rogers, you in there?” 

Steve smiled. “Sure am, Tim.” He stood and made his way over to the doorway. “You need somethin’?”

“You seen the phantom yet?” 

“Can’t say I have.” 

“Ain’t no phantom,” Jim snapped. He looked over to Steve. “Fella wanders around at night sometimes, lives over by Pierce’s rooms. In that wing that’s all locked up.” 

“Don’t be dumb, Jimmy, why’d he be livin’ out there?” Dugan stubbed out his burned up cigarette and fished another out of his pocket. 

Jim shrugged. “Must be real nuts, I guess.” 

Monty suddenly sat up, shaking his head. 

“What is it, limey?” Jim asked, before looking over to Gabe. 

Monty had taken a real hard hit out at Arras, and hadn’t said a word since he’d been dug out of the rubble thirty-six hours later. Gabe never seemed to have any trouble making out his meaning though. 

Gabe frowned, then his face cleared. “Oh, yeah, I heard that too, from that old coot out in Bay One.” He looked round at the others. “We heard that the reason he was out there all alone was that he was Pierce’s son.” 

Dugan frowned. “His son?”

“Yeah,” Gabe was nodding, “like he was born slow or somethin’ so Pierce kept him all locked up outta the way so’s he wouldn’t disgrace the family.” 

Steve frowned, and opened his mouth but Jim beat him to it. “That’s a mean thing to accuse someone of with no proof.” He looked at Steve again. “You heard about him?”

Steve just shook his head. 

“See,” Dugan said, triumphantly, laying down a straight flush, “that means it’s a phantom.” 

Jim looked at him to answer, then looked down at the cards. “Hey, how the Hell have you got the Queen of Hearts when _ I _ got the Queen of Hearts?” 

Dugan just grinned sheepishly. 


	3. Chapter 3

In fairness, Steve tried really hard. 

He tried to carry on with his day to day tasks. He did it well, he thought, everything ran very smoothly. There were no crises, unless you counted Gabe having another couple of fainting spells and one of the fellas out in Bay One having an episode which resulted in Rumlow having to restrain him and talk him down. 

So, all in all, he thought it was fair to say that he’d done a good job. 

It was just that niggle at the back of his head. His ma had always said he had a mind like a terrier, once he got somethin’ into his head, he just wouldn’t stop digging. 

And he didn’t know whether it was his own doubts about Pierce, courtesy of Abraham, or his own inclination towards mystery and drama, but the story about a hidden child locked away from the world certainly piqued his own imagination towards the gothic. 

He knew that Bucky, and his ma to be fair, woulda been on at him to just keep his head down and stop chasin’ his own daydreams, but, Steve thought to himself in a fit of self-pity, they’d both up and died and left him, so they’d given up any right to scold him. 

He’d’ve probably left it alone anyway, if it wasn’t for his noticing that Rumlow definitely did spend a whole heap of time out in that closed off wing by Pierce’s rooms.

It was probably just a domestic area. After all, they might have a lady who came in to see to all the laundry and the washing and such, but she only came up twice a week, and Rumlow was in charge of seein’ that all of that was organised. 

Hell, Rumlow might have his own rooms that way. He certainly hadn’t been forthcoming about where he was living. 

Steve might’ve let it all go after all… if he hadn’t noticed one evening that Rumlow hadn’t bothered to lock the east wing door behind him. 

And, well, it wasn’t as if Steve had ever been told out right that that wing was out of bounds. It was always better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission. He’d used that expression to cajole Bucky into all manner of trouble, and it weren’t as if he intended to stop now. 

To his credit, he did hesitate by the door… Not for very long, granted, but it was something. 

He didn’t know what he expected, crossing into this illicit area, but whatever it was he didn’t find it. The corridor was much like all the others in the hospital, long and impersonal, but bright, painted in a dull cream. 

For a second, Steve felt real stupid. Maybe, his imagination had got away from him after all, and how the hell was he supposed to explain it if Rumlow, or God forbid, Pierce, found him snooping around out here. 

But he’d come this far. 

He was still new enough to pass off his trespass as having lost his way. In all likelihood, he’d be in and out before anyone could notice him, and put all of this to rest. 

He passed a few empty rooms, left with stacked up crates in their centre and dust sheets covering any remaining furniture. All very dull, and exactly what you’d expect from a half used hospital on an old estate. 

He was about ready to turn back, when he noticed that one of the doors on this corridor had a sliver of light emanating from under the closed door. Steve let himself jog a little to get up close. 

The name plaque on the door was missing, as if the whole thing had been removed and never replaced. Steve couldn’t help his curiosity. 

When he tried the door, he found it was unlocked and any qualms he had fled quickly. 

Inside the room, there was a man. There were leather straps shackling him to the bed, across his wrists, ankles and chest. Even his forehead. 

Steve had taken a couple of steps forward before he’d even realised it. 

The man was staring blankly at the ceiling. His hair was long and tangled, curling messily beneath him. His mouth was lolling open. Steve could see a thin trail of saliva slipping over his lip. 

And then Steve  _ looked _ at him.

Steve sucked in a breath. “Bucky?”

Up close, Steve could see that his left arm ended in an untidy lump of scarred flesh, just inches below the shoulder. 

“Buck...” 

Steve thought he might be sick.

Seeing Bucky was like seeing a corpse. Was like walking into a room, and seeing his own mother seated in the corner. He felt dizzy, like he’d walked into a nightmare. 

Dizzy, like he might faint. 

He leant over, to get his head low, trying to steady his breathing. To stop his heart from floundering wildly. 

Because Bucky was alive. 

Not a ghost. Not a corpse. 

He was  _ alive _ . 

All these years, and Buck was here. Right here. A single train ride out of New York. 

Steve could’ve been here, at his side. All this time.

But he couldn’t have known. Had no reason to search. 

Every reason to think Bucky was dead. That either he would come back to him when the war was over, or that he would die. 

Now he realised that there was a third option. 

He felt tears burning at his eyes. “What happened to you, Buck?”

Steve noticed that the strap across his right wrist was twisted, cutting a groove into his pale flesh. He automatically reached across and adjusted it, smoothing it flat. 

When he glanced up, Bucky was watching him. 

“Oh!” Steve had thought he was out cold. “Buck, it’s me. It’s Steve.” 

Bucky’s mouth moved silently. 

Steve leaned down, so close that he could feel Bucky’s breath against his cheek. 

“Help.”

Steve had brought his hand up to cup Bucky’s hair without thinking. “What can I do? How can I help, Buck? Tell me.”

Bucky’s eyes swivelled round to face him. Pupils dilated and dark. “He… Help.”

“Alright,” Steve was patting at his head, “you’re alright.”

Bucky clearly couldn’t quite control his mouth, another trail of saliva falling over his lip. That was normal with some of the medications. Steve reached up and wiped it away with his thumb. 

“You’re safe. It’s safe here. I’m here.”

Bucky’s eyes went wide again and he shook his head as much as he could with the restraints. “St… Ste…”

Steve crouched down, stroked his hair back. “Yeah, it’s Steve. I’m here.” 

“Steve,” Bucky said the word like he was drowning, begging for help.

“Mr. Rogers.” 

Steve nearly hit the ceiling with shock. He jumped up. 

“Sir… erm… Alexander...” 

Pierce was impossible to read. He gestured to the door. “We’ll talk outside.”

Steve had the uncanny feeling of being sent to see the matron at school. He passed Rumlow in the doorway, heard Bucky start to struggle again. 

“Steve! Stevie!”

He started to turn around, but Pierce caught his elbow and dragged him out of the room. 

He couldn’t believe it. Bucky was here. He was here and he remembered him and… and oh God he was gonna lose this job as soon as he started. What was he going to say to Abraham? 

Pierce closed the door behind him. 

“Sir,” Steve started, “I’m sorry, but-“ 

Pierce held up a hand and Steve actually felt his teeth click shut. Pierce stayed silent for a long while, ran a hand over his face.

“My nephew,” Pierce said, on a sigh. 

“Oh,” Steve should’ve tried harder to keep the surprise out his voice, “your… but-”

“Come with me. I’ve a bottle open in my office.”

Pierce was already walking before that filtered through Steve’s head.

***

“Sir, that’s Bucky. I mean my friend. He’s, was, my friend.” Steve started talking even as he was sitting down. 

“Yes. James.” Pierce said the name like it was a correction. He had his back to Steve, pouring two glasses of brandy. He turned and handed one to Steve. “My sister-in-law’s boy.”

“Your…” Steve fumbled to put his glass down. “Oh, yes, sir.”

He thought he remembered Bucky mentioning an Uncle Alexander at some point, though he couldn’t pinpoint the memory.

Pierce took a swig of brandy. “If I’d known you were schoolfriends I would, of course, have…” He gestured to Steve and trailed off. “He was always a melancholy boy, prone to fits and moods.” 

Steve frowned, remembering the cheerful boy he’d known at school. Everybody’s buddy. Sure Bucky could get riled up when he saw something that didn’t sit right with him. He was passionate and he could certainly get into a sulk. 

But the Bucky in Steve’s memory was full of sunlight and laughter, and God how much he loved him. 

What the hell had happened to him? 

“If you wouldn’t mind, sir, how did he..?”

Pierce looked at him for a long while. He settled back in his chair. “The war was hard on a lot of the boys, and well,” he took another drink, “you’ve seen him. He was released from the hospital into his sister’s care.”

“Becca?” 

Pierce almost hid the frown at being interrupted. “Yes. Rebecca couldn’t… well, his mind was gone, and it wasn’t the sort of thing you could ask a woman to deal with.” He thought for a second. “Or her husband for that matter. She signed him into my care.” 

Steve couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe Becca would abandon her brother. But then… if Pierce was family… If Bucky really was so sick…

Pierce leaned forward, placed a hand on Steve’s arm. “I can see he meant a lot to you, son.” 

Steve nodded, not really able to get the words out. “He…” He swiped at his eyes, preemptively. “I thought he was dead. When he never… When I never heard anything…” 

“Understandable. I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to provide an answer for you on that count earlier. It’s a… a delicate matter you see, son. A  _ family  _ matter. I couldn’t bear it if anything were to befall James. It would be an intolerable loss, and he is so...”

Pierce trailed off, but Steve was nodding. Now he had him back he couldn’t envision a world without Bucky in it again. Couldn’t imagine how he’d gone even a day without seeing him. 

Steve wouldn’t waste a single moment now. Whatever state Bucky was in. Whatever Bucky needed from him, he would give it. 

Steve sniffed, and tried to get a hold of himself. “And I can… I can see him?” 

Pierce smiled. “Of course. He is a patient here. He has his own private wing, near to my office, but,” Pierce let out a slight chuckle, “you have seen that already.”

Steve was rising to his feet when Pierce held out a hand. “Perhaps leave it for tonight. Mr Rumlow will have been working on calming him down, I would hate to excite him again so soon. Tomorrow I’m certain he will be in a more obliging state of mind.”

***

Steve went to see Bucky the next morning. He’d been informed, grudgingly by Rumlow, that Bucky had been moved back to his regular room. The place he’d been last night had been a treatment room. 

Steve knocked on the open door, out of politeness only, no doors were allowed to be closed in the facility. There was no privacy here.

Bucky was sitting on the bed, pushed up against the far wall. He was huddled in an afghan, clutched tight to his chest, other blankets strewn beneath him. The rest of the room was bare, save for a set of shelves of books and a soft chair. 

The whole place was comfortable but impersonal. 

Steve saw nothing of Bucky in this place. It made his heart ache a little. 

Bucky looked up at the knock. His expression was empty, save perhaps for a flicker of surprise. 

“Bucky.” Steve couldn’t help it as the name slipped out of his mouth. Bucky did not register the name. Steve took a couple of steps into the room. “It’s me. It’s Steve.”

“Steve,” Bucky said slowly, still frowning, “my uncle…”

Steve waited as he trailed off. 

Bucky shook his head, met Steve’s eyes. “I’m sorry. My uncle said I scared you last night.”

Steve frowned. “Why would he say that?” 

Bucky gave a half shrug. “I don’t remember. I… I’m dangerous when I’m sick.” 

Steve opened his mouth to contradict him, and then swallowed sharply. “Well, you didn’t scare me.” 

Bucky gave him a smile that was a ghost of the one Steve remembered. It still made his voice catch in his throat, the same way it had when he was fourteen. 

“Can I sit with you?” He said, on impulse. 

Bucky looked surprised again, but nodded. 

Steve could feel his heart beating hard, could feel its staggered, off beat lu-lub dub. It wasn’t fear, not of Bucky at least. Fear, maybe, of messing this up. Of hurting Bucky. 

Of hurting him more than he already had been. 

Jesus Christ.

Steve took a seat next to him, leaving a good foot of space between them. “Buck, do you… remember me?” 

“No,” Bucky shook his head, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember last night. I’m… I’m not right sometimes. I get confused.” 

Steve’s heart sank a little. But Bucky had remembered him last night. He had. Steve was sure of it. If he remembered before then he would again. Steve would wait. 

He would always wait. 

Bucky turned to him with another small smile. “I’m James.” He held out his hand. “I don’t get many visitors.” 

Steve halted in the process of shaking his hand. “You don’t? Not even your sisters?” 

Bucky got that far off look again, held his hand utterly still and outstretched even as Steve dropped it.

“Red hair,” he said quietly.

“Yeah. Becca had red hair, when she was small. It was going blonde though, the last time I saw her.” Bucky didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him. “She’ll be grown by now though. I bet she’ll be leading all the guys on a dance.”

Bucky still didn’t answer. 

“James,” Steve said softly. 

Bucky dropped his hand hard. 

“Sorry,” he smiled, quirking the side of his lip up in just the same way he always did, “what were you sayin’?” 

Steve laid a hand over Bucky’s and smiled. “I was sayin’ that I live here now. I’ll come see you every day.” 

“That’s nice.” Bucky said vaguely. He looked out of the window. “I don’t get many visitors these days.”

Steve wanted to wrap his arms around him, so bad. “Bu- James?” 

“Yeah?” 

“We-“ Steve took a breath, not really sure where he was intending to go with this, “we were friends. I... I mean, we are. I’m your friend.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “I don’t-“

“I know,” Steve said quickly. “I know but I wanted  _ you _ to know. You’ve known me your whole life.” 

“Huh.” Bucky sat back. “Musta been nice… What… what was it that you called me? When you came in?” 

“Bucky.” 

“Yeah.” That ghost of a smile again. “I like that.” 

“It’s your name.” 

A pained expression crossed his face. “Uncle Alex wouldn’t…” 

“It was a school name. Your uncle, your family, they wouldn’t have called you that.”

“Oh,” Bucky said impassively. He trailed off, watching out of the window.

Steve felt unreasonably bereft that he had lost Bucky’s attention so easily. He’d thought… hoped, that just his presence would snap Bucky out of it. He wanted to shake him, to scream at him to remember. 

_ You know me! I love you and it should be enough. _

He knew it was ridiculous. What Pierce said was right, Bucky was ill, was so sick and lost, and they didn’t live in a storybook. If love alone was enough, then all the graveyards on earth should crack open and spew out lovers, and brothers and children. 

It would never be enough. 

But Steve had come here to help people, and now to find out that Bucky could be among them was a gift, however much it made his heart ache. 

“How are you feelin’ today, Buck?”

“Fine,” Bucky said automatically, without taking his eyes from the window. 

“You know, you don’t have to lie to me,” Steve said very carefully, “even if it’s somethin’ I can’t help with, I’d still like to know.”

He could see Bucky working his jaw. 

“I’m cold,” he said, finally, and even if it wasn’t what Steve had wanted, he’d take it. 

Was it cold in here? Maybe a little. Steve could see now why Bucky had made himself a nest of blankets. 

“You’ve no fireplace in here.”

“Brock says I’m always cold.” 

“Do you want to sit in the common room? There’s a fire in there.”

“‘M not allowed.”

“You’re not allowed?”

Bucky shook his head.

Steve frowned. “Don’t you get lonely, without the others?”

Bucky shrugged. 

Steve decided to let that one lie for the moment. “How about a sweater? Do you have one?” 

Bucky didn’t answer. 

Steve guessed he was going to have to do a lot of the work here. There was a small wardrobe in one of the corners of the room fastened closed with a padlock. Steve stood up to try it with his master key, and to his great surprise it unlatched easily. 

Opening the door, he found a selection of items of clothing as well as spare sheets and bedding. In the base of the wardrobe, there was a small lockbox, presumably containing whatever valuables Bucky came in with. 

Steve ignored it to sort through the clothes. They were again, generic and impersonal, bought by someone who didn’t know Bucky. It upset him somehow, though Bucky undoubtedly didn’t care, to think of him wearing these sad undershirts and pants. 

Bucky had always adored clothes, he spent every spare dime on whatever was newest and latest. He always looked smart.

It would have killed him to be like this. His hair grown long and oily, an untidy scruff running down his throat. 

Steve knew he was blinking back tears, because this wasn’t his Bucky, not anymore. 

He grabbed a sweater, blue, because Bucky always loved blue. It was cable knit and looked warm. 

He returned to Bucky on the bed. 

Buck was absolutely still, attention still fixed on the window. If he heard Steve return, he made no sign of it. 

“Here you go, Buck.” Steve held out the sweater steadily until Bucky took it, holding it uncertainly. Bucky let the afghan around his shoulders slip, and Steve abruptly remembered his arm. “Oh, let me…” 

He trailed off, unsure if it was rude to offer, but Bucky seemed happy to pass the sweater back. Steve scrunched it up to the neck and tugged it gently over Bucky’s head, holding it at the right angle for Bucky to pass his arm through. 

“There you go, Buck.” Steve forced a smile. “No wonder you were cold in just your slip.”

“Steve,” Bucky said simply, and in an instant Steve knew that this was  _ his _ Bucky.

He dropped into a crouch by his knees. “Yeah, pal.”

Bucky’s eyes were clear and focussed. “Can we go home now?”


	4. Chapter 4

The air was chilled with frost, but it was only the beginnings of winter. It would get a lot colder way out here by the time Christmas rolled around. Steve intended to make the most of rolling hospital grounds before that, and it definitely did Bucky good to get some air every so often. 

“Tell me about before,” Bucky said quietly. He was wrapped up in the thick sweater Steve had found for him in the cupboard. In the slanted winter light he looked delicate and fragile, and totally unlike the man Steve remembered. 

“Before?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Like when we were kids?”

Bucky shrugged loosely with his good shoulder. “Whatever.” 

Their steps were crinkling in the frosty grass as Steve tried to think of a topic. “You used to play stickball in the alley at the back of your tenement. With the boys from school.”

Bucky hummed noncommittally. 

“You were good at it. Not great, not like the Richards brothers, everyone always said they’d make it to the Minor Leagues someday. But everyone always wanted you on their team, you know?”

Bucky didn’t reply, too busy looking at the floor. 

“So anyway, there was this one day-”

“Where were you?” 

“Um, watching, I guess. There was a wall I used to sit on next to-”

“Why?” 

Steve frowned a little. “Because I wasn’t very good, Buck.” 

Bucky frowned like he didn’t like that answer. “I played without you?” He said it like it was the worst thing in the world. 

“I didn’t wanna play. I was no good at it, it was embarrassing. A coupla times, you said you wouldn’t play if the other kids didn’t let me, but honestly, I didn’t like it, Buck.”

Bucky stayed silent and Steve could tell Bucky didn’t really get it, which in fairness, was probably the same at the time. Bucky had always adored sports, so the idea that anyone didn’t was lost on him. 

“I was a pretty shrimpy kid.” 

Bucky looked at him pointedly. 

Steve laughed. “I know. But believe me, I was. Even when I shot up, I looked like a strong breeze would blow me over. I could only play for about ten minutes before I got out of breath, and half the time I couldn’t hear what the kids were shoutin’ to me. I was terrible, and it made me feel terrible.”

Bucky’s face had scrunched up into that frown again. “They shouldn’ta made you feel bad.”

Steve laughed, because he was certain they’d had this exact conversation before. “They were just being kids, Buck. And it was about me, not them. I had a chip on my shoulder that I couldn’t shake, so I just didn’t want to play at all.”

Bucky didn’t seem convinced. “What happened?”

Steve smiled. “I met Abraham. He was a good guy, a good doctor, he worked out how to stop me half dyin’ every time the influenza rolled around. Guess he gave my body a fightin’ chance in the end.”

Bucky half stumbled to a stop, and Steve had a hand out ready to catch him on instinct. The sedatives here were no joke. 

“You alright?” 

Bucky took a couple of breaths, before he looked over, frowning a little. “Your heart used to race somethin’ awful. Like… like a mouse? The stairs at your ma’s were killers on a good day, and you would try to hide how hard you were pantin’ by the time you got to the top.”

The whole thing was said like it was a question, and Steve nodded through all of it. Bucky kept doing this, more and more often, Steve hoped him being around was helping a little. “Still does, Buck.” 

“It still..?”

“Mmhmm. C’mere.” Steve turned so he was facing Bucky and unfastened the top of his coat. He pulled at Bucky’s hand until he consented to brush his hand over Steve’s shirt. 

Bucky was ever so hesitant to touch him, and for a second, Steve almost couldn’t bear it, thinking about how those hands had left bruises on his hips that had lasted days. Dozens of lovers’ souvenirs. 

“You gotta press down harder, Buck.” Steve covered his hand, kept watching his face. “You feel that?”

Bucky nodded, staring intently at his own hand pressed against Steve’s chest. 

“That flutter? ‘S called a systolic thrill. Well, we didn’t know that back then, but that’s what you meant.” 

Bucky was still frowning. 

“Becca used to keep white mice,” Steve carried on, “when she was real, real small. When you picked them up, they were so tiny you could feel their hearts quivering through their whole body. It felt like that. That’s what you meant.” 

Bucky removed his hand. “But you’re alright now?” 

Steve smiled. “Yeah, I guess. I guess I ain’t tryin’ to play stickball in alleys or doin’ hundred yard dashes for kicks anymore. Tends to take the pressure off.” 

Bucky reached up and tugged Steve’s coat closed again, hesitating a little by the collar. “I always knew, you know. You used to try and play it cool.” Bucky met his eyes. “But I always knew, when you couldn’t get your breath at the top of your ma’s stairs. Always.

“I want to go back now.” Bucky dropped his hand abruptly. “Come on. It’s cold. I want to go back.”

***

Bucky woke up screaming. 

That wasn’t unusual, but now that Steve had moved his room over to the other side of the hospital, he was woken almost nightly. Usually Bucky would settle himself down again. The nightmare over, he would go back to sleep. 

As soon as he walked into the room, Steve knew that would not be the case tonight. 

Bucky was out of bed and as soon as he saw Steve he was backing away into the wall. 

“No. No, no.” 

Steve automatically raised his hands. “What’s the matter, pal?” 

“I...” Bucky didn’t move away from the wall, “I gotta get out of here.” 

“You’re safe here, Buck.”

Bucky was shaking his head before Steve had finished his sentence. “It’s not safe. It’s not!” 

He stiffened suddenly, right before Steve heard footsteps in the tiled corridor. There was a horrible moment when the blood seemed to drain out of Bucky’s face, and then Rumlow stepped around the side of the door. 

“Came to find out what our canary’s singing about this time.”

Bucky balked instantly and turned to try to drag the shutters from the window. 

“I’ve got this, Brock.” 

Rumlow raised an amused eyebrow. “It sure looks like it.”

“You’re hardly helping,” Steve snapped. “Bucky. Buck, come on, pal. Stop that.” 

Steve took one step forward and Bucky shrieked like he’d seen a spirit. Steve couldn’t make out any words in it. If it was in terror or in warning, but he was clawing at the bars so hard that Steve was worried he might cut himself. 

“Bucky, please.” 

Rumlow shouldered past him. “That’s enough of that, I think.” 

Almost without trying, Rumlow managed to get a hand on the back of Bucky’s neck. With the other wrenching his right arm up his back, Rumlow put him on the floor in a single swift movement. He dragged a pair of padded cuffs out of his pocket. 

Steve stepped forward. “Brock-” 

“What? You want him to hurt himself?”

Steve didn’t really have an answer to that. He didn’t want him here at all. Didn’t want him screaming and writhing on the tiled floor. 

Rumlow fastened one cuff around his wrist, looped them around the leg of the bed, and cuffed the second loop around his ankle. 

“Brock, that’s not-”

“I know.” Rumlow pushed himself up. “Ain’t leavin him like that. Watch him while I get the trolley. What’s he had? Paraldehyde?”

Rumlow left without an answer and Steve was left alone in the room with Bucky. He dropped to his knees at his side. “It’s alright, Buck. I promise.”

He couldn’t see Bucky’s face because it was pressed into the tile, but he could hear his hitching breaths. 

Bucky was crying.

That thought hit Steve like a train. Because Bucky was crying, and it wasn’t right. He had never seen Bucky cry, not ever. At the most he’d gotten little misty eyed at some cheap novel he’d picked up. 

But here he was, sobbing, like a child. It was raw and empty and completely without facade. 

Steve abruptly remembered Mrs. Isles’ funeral. 

Back when he was young, his ma had been friendly with Mrs. Isles. When she’d died, it was the first time he’d really seen Mr. Isles, beyond a hazy figure behind the window of the druggists. To Steve back then he had seemed impossibly old, looking back, he was probably just edging past middle aged. 

At the funeral, he remembered Mr. Isles crying. It was a shock to him. Being so young, he’d never seen an adult cry before, and definitely not a grown man. 

And Mr. Isles cried like he'd never seen anyone cry before. It was only later that he realised that he was completely free from facade. Crying without any heed to dignity or good show. 

Crying like tomorrow didn't matter at all. 

That was how Bucky was crying. 

And it broke Steve’s goddamn heart. 

He started brushing through Bucky’s hair, tentative fingers through the grease at the roots. “It’s alright, Buck.”

Blessedly, he quietened down a little.

Rumlow returned, and crouched at their side. He had a syringe in his hand and carefully emptied it into the vein at the base of Bucky's elbow.

"Somnifaine?"

Rumlow nodded. 

That should do it. 

They waited in silence as Bucky's breathing slowed. Rumlow unlocked the cuffs and lifted him up onto the bed with ease.

Steve wanted to tell Rumlow that he would do it himself, because the thought of another man’s hands on Bucky’s body filled him up with fire, but Rumlow was quick and clinical, and there was a knack to lifting a person which Steve hadn’t yet learnt. 

Rumlow positioned him on his stomach, making sure his chin was up, that he wouldn’t choke. 

“Make sure you lock him in when you go,” Rumlow said, as he straightened out Bucky’s limbs, so they weren’t in a slumped tangle. “I’ve seen ‘em get up again, even dosed up to hell. Don’t want him wandering.” 

Steve frowned, still watching Bucky’s back rising and falling. “After they’ve had somnifaine?”

“Bet they never taught ya that at Hopkins.” Rumlow grunted a laugh, as he stood up. “Fear like that? Makes you strong.”

Steve’s heart ached. And his bones ached and his gut. “What’s happening to him?”

Rumlow came to stand at his side. “Nightmares.” 

“Nightmares?” 

“What?” Rumlow snapped, and in an instant all the amiability was gone from his face. He turned like he was thinking of squaring up. “Guys like you don’t have ‘em?” 

Steve very deliberately didn’t match his posture. He didn’t want a fight, not with Rumlow, and certainly not at three in the morning.

Rumlow looked at little like he was holding his breath, then he stepped back. 

“Lock the door,” he said shortly, and turned to leave.

***

Steve rubbed at his eyes, doing nothing to wipe away the fatigue that seemed to have settled into his bones.

He liked this bench, out under the maple trees which lined the grounds of the asylum, hiding the high chain fence which surrounded the estate. He liked to watch the maple seeds swirl onto his slacks and his shoes. 

It was calming somehow. 

Perhaps it was just that it reminded him of Prospect Park. 

The sky was beginning to darken. He would need to be back soon to help with settling everyone for the night. 

Hopefully everyone would go easily.

He rubbed his hands across his eyes again, as Bucky inevitably forced his way into Steve’s consciousness.

Things had not progressed as quickly as he had hoped. 

Steve had been sure that first day, when Bucky had recognised him again that it would all work out fine. But it wasn’t to be. 

Bucky’s health varied wildly by the day. Some days he wouldn’t know Steve at all, would be practically catatonic through most of it. That was probably the medications, Rumlow was always ready with a needle, on Pierce’s orders, probably. Afterall, a catatonic patient wasn’t harming himself. 

But Steve couldn’t bear it. Or the confusion that came after, when Bucky couldn’t understand where he was, who Steve was. 

Steve didn’t know whether it was better when he was lucid. When he recognised him, Bucky would want to go home, and it broke Steve’s heart, every damn time, to have to tell him no, when that was all that Steve wanted. 

To take him home, and keep him there. Away from everything that had hurt him. 

Steve rubbed at his face again. There was no sense in going down that road. It was one with no good ends, and he didn’t need another thing keeping him awake at night. 

The nightly screaming was, unfortunately, one of the things he could set his watch by. Steve couldn’t even begin to imagine what Bucky had experienced overseas. But watching its effect, Steve was filled with a strange mixture of the guilt that had followed him relentlessly after Bucky had shipped out, and relief that in the end he had not been able to go. 

It had been a brutal kick back then, when Bucky left on the ship. Steve had tried everything, gone to every recruitment station in the city, but he couldn’t manage to bullshit, barter or bribe his way into any regiment. 

Steve had lain there the night Bucky had gone, wrapped up in himself and his own misery. He had missed Bucky’s arms around him. Missed how he sometimes talked nonsense in his sleep. Missed his sleep warm, morning breath kisses. 

He had felt empty and angry and wild. Unstrung and listless. 

And then Erskine had mentioned the hospitals, the wounded men returning from the front, how little time there was to see to all of them. 

It had felt like a mission then. He understood what the priests meant when they described their dedication to God. 

The feeling had increased exponentially when Bucky did not return. 

Damn God and all His angels if He could let the devil take all those men. 

Steve might not have been able to save Bucky, but he was damn sure he was gonna save the ones he could, who had bled and choked and screamed because some old congressman had sent them to. Who stared blankly into the night, and cried when there was no one there to chide them, because they’d seen things no one should. 

He’d worked hard at it, studied hard at John Hopkins when Abraham had asked him to, and it had all brought him to this moment. 

Back to Bucky. 

And if that wasn’t fate, he didn’t know what was.

He rubbed his face again, this time acknowledging the dampness he felt on the back of his hand. 

He had to take the second chance he’d been given. He couldn't save Bucky before, but he was gonna save him now. 

No matter what. 


	5. Chapter 5

Alexander was worried. 

He was self aware enough that he could admit that to himself. The boy’s arrival was not one that he could have predicted, and if there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was unexpected complications. 

It had been going well. 

His nephew had long since stopped questioning the treatments he was given. He was compliant and quiet, not like when he had first arrived. 

He had been, in any case. 

Watching Rogers and his nephew out of his office window, it was clear where the rebelliousness was coming from.

James was animated in Rogers’ company. Even from this distance, Alexander could see the smile stretched across his face. He looked bright, and for a second, Alexander couldn’t help but hate him. That a weak-willed faggot should be hale and hearty, while his own dear Abigail should have passed so young. 

That he himself should be denied his wife’s inheritance in favor of this defective. Should be left a widower, childless. It was intolerable. 

It was…

Alexander pressed his fist into the windowsill. 

It would not do to give into self-pity now. Not when he was so close to redressing the balance. 

He could not have this Rogers boy upsetting his plans. But he had no quarrel with the boy, and he had no real desire to send him home in disgrace. He was a good worker, and a personable man. Erskine would no doubt query his being returned so soon. No, better altogether to have him leave voluntarily.

Alexander tapped the window ledge, as he watched Rogers begin to steer James back towards the hospital. 

After a few steps, Rogers noticed him up in the window, nudging James and raising his hand. Alexander returned the greeting. 

Rogers was loyal. Genial. 

That was likely to be the key. 

He would not stay if his presence was harming his dear friend’s health. 

Alexander thought about it for a moment. It was about time that he had a chat with his nephew. One without Rogers present. Tomorrow morning. Early. It would be easy to ensure Rogers did not wake before it was over. He would have Rumlow invite him to his office. 

A few days of hydrotherapy should do it.

He watched the two boys out of the window again. He had perhaps been growing lax, too permissive. Perhaps it was time to instruct Rumlow to begin the cephaeline again. 

***

It was barely morning when James was summoned by Uncle Alex. He sent Brock to collect him from his room, and he knew that if he still slept properly it would have been an interminably early awakening. 

Uncle Alex was seated a his desk, as usual. 

James had never liked this room. It was like the more Alex had tried to make it airy and welcoming, the colder and sharper it felt. 

“James, my boy,” Alex stood with expansive arms. 

James felt small and frail next to him, huddled with his arm around his stomach in the sweater which swamped him.

“Come! Come and sit!” His uncle gestured towards the chairs over by the window. 

So it was a day that he wanted something. He was always the most friendly and accommodating when he wanted something. 

“Would you like a drink?” Uncle Alex asked, as if James had answered him warmly before. “Coffee? Or was it tea that your mother used to drink?”

James didn’t answer. It didn’t matter. Every time he drank his uncle’s coffee, he would wake up hours later with no memory of the time in between. Sometimes it lasted hours more. Hours in his room, panicking because he didn’t know where he was and nothing felt real. 

He would have to find a way not to drink it. It had been easier at first, before his uncle realised what he was doing. After that he was intent on finding ways to force James into it. 

He had managed to pour it away, a couple of times. Back into the pot. But he knew that Alex knew. He always knew. 

One time he had spilled it, right over into his lap and over Uncle Alex’s brushed suede chair. 

And James had seen the icy look he’d been given. Before Alex had been able to mask it beneath avuncular concern. 

James knew it was no accident that Rumlow had come that night. That he’d woken strapped tight to the table in the treatment room. 

What did they do? What did they do while he was sleeping endless dreamless sleep?

Uncle Alex was smiling. It was a smile that James couldn’t quite read. He was certain it wasn’t good.

“I hear you’ve met our newest colleague.” 

It wasn’t a question, so again, James didn’t answer. 

“Taken quite a shine to him, haven’t you? Our Mr. Rogers.”

James made a noise in the back of his throat. “Steve.” 

“Steve,” Uncle Alex agreed. “I’ll admit, I’m glad for it. It’s not healthy for a young man to be shut away in his room all alone. Even,” Alex paused with a dark smile, “a young man as damaged as yourself.”

“Sick,” James said. 

“Yes.” Uncle Alex gestured to the coffee, took a sip of his own. “Don’t let it get cold, my boy.” 

James cupped his hand around the china, letting it warm his fingers. 

“He has told you of your connection, of course.”

“He?” 

“Mr. Rogers.” 

“Oh, yes.”

His uncle was watching him. “You knew him from school? I’m glad you’ve been able to reunite.”

Knew him from school? Yes, but that wasn’t all. It wasn’t nearly enough. No words could be enough. Being with Steve, he felt like he could breathe again. Like he hadn’t noticed how unreal the world had become, until Steve had brought back clarity. 

Bucky had no intention of telling Uncle Alex any of that. 

He gulped back a mouthful of coffee to keep from answering, and then coughed when he remembered he wasn’t supposed to drink it. 

“How have you been sleeping, James?” Alex asked, like he hadn’t been waiting on an answer to an entirely different question.

“Fine.” 

Alex smiled faintly. “Are you lying to me, nephew?” 

Bucky frowned. He didn’t even dream anymore, not in his drugged sleep. “No.” 

He took another gulp of coffee, because it was too late now anyway, and the woozy, tingly feeling that was starting in his fingers was a familiar comfort.

He looked down at his hand, and there was a definite blurring as he moved them, like he was watching an out of focus nickelodeon. 

“James,” Uncle Alex said again, letting him know that his patience was failing. 

“Bucky.”

“What?” Alex said, coldly. 

Bucky met his eye. “My name is Bucky.” 

There was a tense moment, when all Bucky could hear was the two of them breathing into the silence. 

“I think, nephew,” Alex stood up, “that you are over tired.” 

“Yeah, well, you stop slipping me mickeys and maybe I’ll start sleepin’ a little easier.” 

“Enough!” Alex shouted.

And for all that his uncle was an old man, Bucky couldn’t help but flinch. 

Alex sighed heavily, running a hand through the pomade in his hair to slick it back again. “You need rest, James. Complete bed rest. I have told you before.” 

He crossed behind Bucky over to the door, and didn’t Bucky just know that Rumlow would be waiting outside.

He heard the murmur of voices, though he couldn’t make out what was being said. He downed the last of his drink, because blurring the edges didn’t seem so bad right now. 

The footsteps were back, two sets of them. And Bucky hadn’t even looked around before he felt Rumlow’s hands roughly beneath his arm, and he was dragged to his feet. 

Bucky knew to expect the rough fabric of the straight jacket. 

“Don’t let Rogers in to him.” Alex was saying, running his hands back through his hair again. “Three days this time. In the isolation room.” 

Bucky felt his heart stutter. Three days? A night, one night was bad enough! 

“Uncle, please,” he managed before Rumlow stuffed a scrap of cloth into his mouth. 

“If you will not rest and save your own mind, nephew, then I will do whatever I must.”

Bucky was shaking his head, but Rumlow just dropped him to the ground, with an oof and a knee to the back. His arm was dragged tightly across him and secured, and facedown on the floorboards he couldn’t do a fucking thing about it. Just had to wait as he felt the straps draw tight around his legs so he couldn't shuck it. 

Rumlow lifted him like it was nothing, the angle of his shoulder digging into Bucky’s gut. 

There was nothing he could do, and there was no way he was giving Uncle Alex or Rumlow the satisfaction of crying out. 

It crossed his mind to shout for Steve. Even muffled shouting might be enough to draw him over. But then he squared whatever pride he had left. He refused to let Stevie see him like this, flung over Rumlow’s shoulder and trussed up. 

A dark part of his mind whispered that Stevie might not object anyway. He was here after all, on Uncle Alex’s orders. And this is what they did to goddamn loons. 

Before he could let that train of thought carry him any further into misery, Rumlow stepped into the pitch black room and dropped him heavily into the chair. Bucky could just about make out his face in the light from the doorway, there was a sheen of sweat across his forehead from carrying him.

Bucky grunted a couple of times, until Rumlow frowned. He drew the straps tight around his shoulders, his waist, his ankles, until he was laid back, almost reclining. With the medication and the lack of support, his head was lolling back.

He grunted again, and Rumlow scowled. “You better not say a fucking word,” he said, and fished out the scrap of cloth from between Bucky’s teeth. 

Bucky, obediently, didn’t say a thing. What was given could be taken away, after all. He did try to scrape the taste of the damn cloth off his tongue with his teeth. 

Rumlow gave the strap across his chest an extra tug, as if to punish him. 

“Not a word,” he grunted again, and then he crossed behind Bucky and closed the door, plunging the room into total darkness.

There wasn’t even any light coming from beneath the door.

Bucky could hear the echo of Rumlow’s footsteps getting further away, until he was left alone. He was breathing fast. 

Waiting. 

And breathing. 

There was a muted click above him, and it was enough to set his nerves on edge, because he knew what was coming. 

A second click, and then Bucky felt like he’d been punched in the gut, as the breath was knocked out of him. Tiny, icy daggers cut into him where the flow of water was less of a solid thump, across his jaw and his thighs, soaking him through. 

He was gasping. Stray splashes catching him in the mouth, increasing the feeling that he might be about to drown. 

The water had soaked through the straight jacket and the cold froze his lungs, froze his heart. 

He gasped and shouted and his brain whited out, and he couldn't see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He couldn’t remember why he was here, or why it hurt.

***

By the time the water stopped, he was a shivering mess. Soaked through and shouting. Because he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t see. 

And he couldn't remember. 

***

“Is it done?” Alexander asked, and smiled as Rumlow nodded. “I would like you to restart my nephew on cephaeline. Just once every few days.” He thought for a second. “To start with.”

Rumlow was as sour-faced as ever. He took a second to nod. “What’s he need it for?”

Alexander turned around. “Is that relevant?” 

Rumlow just held his gaze. “What will I tell Rogers?” 

Alexander smiled. “You are lacking in imagination, Mr. Rumlow. Simply don’t tell him.”

Rumlow did not move for a few long moments. “Yessir.” 

Alexander waited until Rumlow was almost out of the door. “Do you still spend your nights in Fairbanks, Mr. Rumlow?”

Alexander actually heard him pause. Then slow footsteps back into the room. He could feel Rumlow’s eyes on his back. 

“I rent rooms in town, if that’s what you mean.”

Alexander nodded slowly, as he poured himself a brandy. “Your rooms here weren’t to your liking?” 

There was another very long pause. “I don’t like to sleep at work, gets you into bad habits.”

Alexander just nodded, and waited. 

“Why?” Rumlow carried on. His voice was sharp. He’d never been good at holding his temper. “Were you intending to keep the whole hospital hostage?”

Alexander gave an exaggerated wince. He turned to face Rumlow. “Now an accusation like that, an unfounded accusation,” he held up a finger, “that could end a man’s career.”

He smiled again, at the look on Rumlow's face.

***

He was shivering. Ice in his bones that he couldn’t shake. He’d had a vague feeling of movement, like he’d floated out of his body, but now he was still. The light in the window flashed, night and day, as if time was slipping past him. Like he’d fallen out of reality. 

Into dreams. 

Sound washed over him, like thoughts, not connecting with anything. 

“Bucky?”

A face above his, sharp and pained and soft all at once. 

He couldn’t get his mouth to work, which was a shame, because he would bet that if he did it would make that face smile. 

That’d be nice. 

Hands brushed his face.

The face had hands… which yeah, sure, faces tended to have hands attached. Hand singular, in his case.

He started to laugh at his own joke, even though the sound was too gravelly to be anything like a laugh really, and the hand moved to brush across his lip. 

“It’s alright,” the face said, and he really wished that he could answer it. “Just gotta warm you up a bit.”

He felt a weight pressing over him, heavy and even. Blankets. The face had brought him extra blankets. That was kind. 

“Bucky?” The hands were back on his face, brushing gently into the side of his hair. “Can you hear me? Bucky?”

He moved his mouth. Coughed, as his throat seemed to stick together. Coughed again. 

He was dragged up, against warm skin, a hand patting hard at his back. He lolled into warmth and into dark, and then he was back as cool metal pressed against his lips, and water soothed his throat. 

“It’s alright,” the voice said again, rumbling through his chest this time. “You’re alright. I’m here.”

“Thanks,” he rasped, and it  _ was _ a word even though his mouth felt mushy.

There were warm arms around him. “Any time, Bucky.” 

He hummed, because he didn’t want the voice to stop. “Who’s Bucky?” 

He felt a sharp intake of breath through the other chest, and the arms tightened around him. That was a shame, he didn’t want to make the man sad. 


	6. Chapter 6

Steve didn’t know what was happening. Bucky had been better, he’d been getting better, talking to Steve about stories from their past. He’d been quiet, and sad still, but not…

He hadn’t remembered what they’d been to each other. But, that was only a matter of time surely? 

Steve couldn’t believe the turn things had taken. 

Bucky had been fine. They’d taken their morning walk as usual, Bucky had smiled at him, that way he used to, and made Steve’s heart skip a little bit more than usual. And he’d been hopeful. 

He shoulda known. You should never let that little bit of hope in. 

Bucky had taken ill in the night, Rumlow had told him. He’d… he’d tried to hurt himself. 

Steve couldn’t understand how he hadn’t woken. He was usually alert for every noise, waiting endlessly for Bucky’s screams in the night. How could he have missed something so…

Alexander had been called, had ordered three days of rest and hydrotherapy. That he should be kept from Steve.

Alexander had been very kind about it, explained that he didn’t want to cause either of them distress. Steve had asked him what was wrong with Bucky, sat with his hands in his lap in Pierce’s office, trying to pretend his heart wasn’t breaking. 

“He’s delusional,” Pierce had said, gently. “He woke in a state of confusion, and had to be restrained. He was convinced he was still in danger. Such psychosis is sadly not unusual with men who have seen combat. A weak mind cannot handle such stress.” 

“But surely if we could speak to him, convince him…”

Pierce had watched him steadily. “You’ve had little experience of patients with psychosis, Mr. Rogers.” He’d held his hand up. “That’s not a criticism. Erskine deals more with hysteria and the feeble minded. When you’ve worked with lunatics as long as I have, you realise there’s no reasoning with them. They have no rationality to which you can appeal.”

“But…” 

“A shock is what they need, and then isolation and rest, hopefully that will return them to reason.”

Steve remembered feeling like he was about to cry. “Hopefully?”

Pierce had smiled. “There’s reason for hope, in this case. My nephew has regained his senses in the past, as you have seen.” Pierce had clasped his hands, smiled in a way that was evidently supposed to be comforting. “There’s no cause for despair as yet.”

Steve was certainly feeling like there was ‘cause for despair’ now. 

Bucky was barely conscious most of the time, mumbling things that didn’t make sense. Sometimes he just gave his service number over and over again. Sometimes he would shake Steve’s wrist, like he had something real important to say, but he would run sentences together and his thoughts seemed to overlap and Steve couldn’t make head nor tail of it. 

And he was so weak. 

Already too thin and pale, the weight had started dropping off him. He couldn’t keep anything down. Sometimes he threw up plain water. 

Psychosomatic, Pierce had said. He’d been the same when he arrived. 

Hydrotherapy, three times a week. Increased doses of medication. 

Steve couldn't see that any of it was doing anything. 

When he confessed that to Pierce, he had leaned across to squeeze his hand. Steve was pretty sure it was the first time Pierce had touched him outside of their very professional handshake. 

“I know it’s hard for you, son. The two of you are like brothers, I can see that, and your presence helped James make gains in health rapidly, but such improvements can be temporary. I had hoped that would not be the case.” 

“But you think it is?”

Pierce had just smiled sadly. 

It was fake.

He didn’t know whether lunacy was catching, but he had the distinct feeling that Pierce was not telling him everything. 

And he intended to find out. 

***

“What are you giving him?” 

Steve had kept his steps very light, and was pleased when Rumlow almost jumped out of his skin. 

“Jesus, Rogers, you wanna give a man a heart attack?” 

Rumlow was almost smiling. He had spent the last couple of nights in the town. Steve had noticed that whenever he did that, he was in a much better mood the next day. 

It was, in fact, why Steve had picked this morning to launch his offensive. 

Steve wondered if he perhaps had a sweetheart in the town. If men like Rumlow even had sweethearts. 

Rumlow turned back to his cupboard, going back to marking down their stocks of medications and tools. He was humming something under his breath. 

“I need to know what you’re giving to Bucky… to James. I can’t care for my patients if I don’t know what treatments Dr. Pierce has prescribed.”

Rumlow shot him an unreadable look over his shoulder. He shrugged a little. “Nothin’s bein’ kept from you. You didn’t ask.”

“Brock,” Steve said sharply, “what’s he being given?”

Rumlow sighed, like Steve was a deep imposition on his day. But he selected a handful of bottles and placed them on the counter. 

Steve examined them. Paraldehyde and somnifaine, he recognised, and he’d heard of eucadal. Some of them though, he had no idea. 

Phenobarbital? Cephaeline? 

They couldn’t be very common if he hadn’t even heard of them.

Steve tapped one of the bottles against Rumlow’s arm. “What are these? What do they do?” 

Rumlow glanced back over his shoulder and sighed again. “Jesus! I don’t know, Rogers. I’m just the grunt. Ask the big man if you wanna know.”

For some reason Steve couldn’t quantify, that suggestion made him recoil. He oughta ask Pierce. Of course he should. He was here to learn as well as to work, but… 

Something in him said he shouldn’t tip his hand just yet, after all if he’d wanted to know what Bucky was being given, why hadn’t he just asked Pierce outright? 

He hadn’t, because he hadn’t wanted to, and even if he sometimes thought it was baloney, his ma had been a big believer in intuition. Bucky always used to joke that it was the Irish in her, meant she  _ knew _ things. 

Well, maybe Steve had a little bit of that himself. 

Which reminded him… 

“Brock?” Rumlow made a noise that might have been an acknowledgement, or telling him to fuck off, he decided to carry on anyway. “You heard Bucky the other night?” 

Rumlow didn’t make any sign he’d heard. 

“I wondered… what made you check on him? I didn’t hear a damn thing.” 

Again, nothing. He’d perhaps used up Rumlow’s supply of good humor already. 

“You maybe shouldn’t drink what Pierce gives you.” Rumlow said quickly as he turned to leave. He turned his head just enough that Steve was absolutely sure all of his attention was on him. 

Steve stared at him. Was he right not to trust Pierce? 

It had been a feeling in his gut before, and Abraham’s dislike. Now Rumlow too?

He wasn’t an expert, but he had the impression that Rumlow wasn’t the kind of guy who spooked easy. And yet here he was, afraid to speak plainly about a man who was a good twenty years older than him. 

Then again, maybe Rumlow always talked in riddles. He wasn’t exactly chatty at the best of times. 

_ What does he have on you? _

Steve didn’t ask. That was pushing their amity a little too far.

“Thanks, Brock.”

All he got was a grunt in return.

***

Steve sent a telegram to Abraham that afternoon. He knew it was curt. He didn’t care. He needed answers and he wasn’t about to ask Pierce. 

WHAT IS CEPHAELINE STOP he asked. 

He hoped that Abraham would get back to him quickly. 

***

Bucky was shivering. For a second, he couldn’t remember where he was. His knees were aching and burning against the cold tiles and he… it couldn’t be the tenement, there weren’t tiles there… 

His hand was clenched up against the floor. It was pale and he could see the outline of every bone. 

The Lazarett? Munich?

It wasn’t… He couldn’t think for retching his guts up. 

There were warm hands on his back. “It’s alright, Buck. It’s alright.”

“Stevie?”

There was a pause. “Yeah, pal. It’s me.”

Steve just kept patting at him until his stomach stopped convulsing. Bucky could feel his big, warm hands through the fabric of his shirt. 

“Come on, pal. You wanna stand up?”

Bucky thought about it and shook his head. He still felt sick. There were few splatters of stringy bile beneath him. “‘M sorry, I made a mess.”

Steve’s hand hadn’t stopped moving. “It’s alright. It’ll clean up. Now come on, gotta get you back into bed.” 

A weird floating sensation took over him, and it was a couple of seconds before he realised that Steve had lifted him clean of the ground. That wasn’t right…

Steve was above him, from this angle he was staring at the bottom of his jaw. He could feel the breadth of Steve’s shoulders beneath his arm. 

“Hell, Stevie,” he said, because he had the vague feeling that that was as it should be, but it was still  _ wrong _ .

Steve must’ve took it wrong because a muscle twitched in his jaw. “You’ll be alright,” he said, in a tone that Bucky had heard a lot on the Western Front. 

Bucky guessed it must be bad then, huh?

Steve just repeated “you’ll be alright” and Bucky realised that maybe his thoughts weren’t as secret as he’d imagined. Well, that was fine and dandy as long as it was Stevie listening in. 

There was that weird vertigo again, but then he was down on solid ground. “Stevie?”

“Hang on a minute, Buck.” 

Steve was back, shuffling pillows behind him and hitching him up so he was upright. “There you go,” he said, like he was just filling the silence. 

Sat up, Bucky could see that it was no wonder that Stevie had lifted him so easy. He was thin, thinner than he had been at the Lazarett, which made sense. There’d been regular meals there… There’d… When had he last eaten? 

There was something a little obscene about the way his knees bulged out in the middle of his legs. Made him feel sick. 

“Stevie, can I…” He trailed off because it sounded like a stupid question, but Steve was sat next to him, looking all earnest. “Can I get somethin’ to eat?”

Steve looked pained. “You just ate, Buck, you threw it up. You remember that?”

Bucky made a move that could’ve been a nod or a shake depending on interpretation. Kinda. Maybe. 

He hated the way the drugs made him feel fuzzy. 

The drugs… yes, because this was the hospital, not…

“We’ll try again later,” Steve patted his bony knee, “how about some water first?” 

Bucky couldn’t quite remember what they were talking about but water sounded pretty damn good. He settled back, and let Steve pick up an enamel mug from the side. He steadied it a little, but just let Steve guide it to his mouth. 

Christ almighty, he was tired. 

“Hey! Hey, drink some more before you go to sleep.” 

Bucky blinked his eyes open, and smiled because Steve was there, leaning over him. He must be sick, but… no… Stevie wasn’t sick no more, it was  _ him _ , and wasn’t that a kick in the damn teeth. Never get a minute when they were both well, and then…

Then… 

“Stevie,” Bucky said, and then grabbed Steve’s lapel, pulled him into a clashing kiss. Too much teeth and…

Steve pulled back. “Buck? You remember that?” 

His voice was achingly hopeful. 

Bucky felt something break open inside of him. He kissed Steve again, gently this time. His mouth was dry, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter, because of course he remembered his Stevie. What sort of goddamn question was that?

He’d never forget… unless… 

Something dark with too many legs was crawling about inside his gut. 

“Steve,” Bucky grabbed the back of his neck, because this was important and the drugs made him woozy and he’d forget. He’d forget again, and who knew how much he’d forget? Who knew if he’d get it back again. “Steve, we can’t trust Uncle Alex.” 

He glanced towards the door because Alexander would be there, black cloaked and fire and brimstone and… 

No… He wasn’t. 

Of course not. Uncle Alex was just Uncle Alex. 

But still… 

“We can’t trust him, Stevie.” Bucky pulled him closer. Close enough to see the confusion clouding his face, and yeah, Stevie, he knew the feeling but this was important. “Don’t you trust him, Stevie.”

Steve’s hand was on his wrist, and he was still frowning in that oh so sincere way. “Why not, Buck?” 

“The money, Steve!” Bucky whispered, because who knew how many spies Alex had. “He wants the money!” 

Steve pulled back, and suddenly his frown didn’t look so sincere. It looked bemused. “What money, Buck? There’s no money.”


	7. Chapter 7

“What the hell is Bucky talkin’ about?” 

Pierce’s office door had been ajar and Steve had just about paused long enough to shoulder it open. Pierce didn’t look surprised in the least. He didn’t even stop writing. 

Steve felt like he was going to burst out of his skin if he didn’t get answers soon. 

After a few seconds, Pierce put his pen down. He looked up at Steve coldly. “Do you have a question, Mr. Rogers?” 

Steve deliberately unclenched his fist. “Yeah, I wanna know why Bucky’s talkin’ about money, and… and you keepin’ him here and…” 

He could feel himself running out of steam. In his head this had gone differently, and Pierce’s very calm, pale stare was takin’ the wind out of him. 

Pierce didn’t move, just clasped his hands on the desk. “Would you like to take a seat, Mr. Rogers?”

Pierce had the unnerving ability to make him feel like a child. 

He sat, and tried to work up a little bit of his anger again. 

“Now,” Pierce said, “would you like to explain what has happened? I take it my nephew has been a little more lucid this morning?”

“He… woke up after... “

“After the psychogenic vomiting.” 

Steve nodded. “He was talkin’ about the past and he remembered… something, it doesn’t matter, then he started talkin’ about how you were keepin’ him here, tryin’ to steal…”

He could see where this was goin’. Knew exactly what it sounded like. 

He’d expected… He didn't know what he’d expected, Pierce to get defensive or something, and now in the face of all his composure, Steve could feel himself wilting. 

“I see,” Pierce said shortly. “And did he have any evidence for these claims?”

Steve wanted so desperately to sink into the floorboards. “No.”

Pierce smiled, tightly. “I quite understand. Lunatics can be very persuasive, particularly when you are personally involved. It can be why it takes so long for family members to have them committed. But Steven,” Pierce leaned forward, “I need you to bring a rationality to this that my nephew does not possess. I know that you are educated enough to recognise these symptoms.” 

Pierce paused for a moment, and then stood. “Coffee, I think. The pot is a little cool, but no matter.”

He went over to the pot by the window, his back to Steve, and returned with two cups. 

“Paranoia. Feelings of persecution. Irrationality. Illogicality of speech.”

Pierce listed them off, then held out his hand to Steve as he retook his seat. 

“Delusion,” Steve said. His throat was dry. 

“Precisely.” Pierce took a sip of coffee, grimacing before spooning a healthy amount of sugar into his cup. “When James arrived here, he became fixated on the military pension he was receiving, as well as on some imaginary inheritance he believed he was owed. He was convinced that his money was not safe. I presume in your youth you were not financially stable?”

Steve shook his head. 

Pierce nodded. “It is not uncommon for a deranged mind to fixate on past worries. I was unfortunately unable to set his mind at rest, but be assured, his pension is safe in the bank, waiting for him.” He laughed. “I can show you the paperwork, if you like, signed by my nephew.” 

Steve was beginning to feel pretty dumb. 

Pierce settled back in his chair, his cup of coffee cupped in his hands. “As to the rest, the truth is that James committed himself voluntarily to this hospital, again, his signature is on the documents. He is, of course, free to leave whenever he would like, though,” Pierce smiled ruefully, “I would not advise it.” 

Steve was definitely an idiot. “But… why hasn’t Becca been visiting him?”

Pierce smiled again. “I imagine that she has been rather preoccupied with her new child.” 

Steve’s heart skipped a couple of beats. “Becca had a baby?”

“A daughter.” Pierce nodded. “Hannah, I believe. She looks very like her mother.” 

Steve looked away. A daughter. Little Becca had a daughter of her own. 

It had been far, far too long. 

He wished he hadn’t been so desultory after Bucky’s apparent death, so full of aimless rage. He’d wasted a lot of time. 

“Could I have her address?” He looked back to Pierce. “I’d like to write to her.”

Pierce frowned. “You know that I cannot give out my clients details, and particularly not those of my family. I’ll let her know that you’re here though, so that she can get in contact if she wishes.”

Steve nodded, his stomach churning over itself, and his heart beating wildly. “Thank you, sir.” 

Pierce smiled indulgently. “Now, drink your coffee, my boy, and back to work.” 

Steve looked down at the coffee on the desk. It looked innocuous enough, and how many times had he taken coffee or brandy in this office. Suddenly, he couldn’t get Rumlow’s warning out of his head. 

He wondered if madness was catching after all. 

He pushed the coffee back across the table. “I’m feeling a little nauseous, actually. I think I need some air.” 

And if he was watching really, really closely, Steve would say that Pierce’s smile became a little fixed. 

“Next time, my boy,” he said finally, and emptied the cup into his own, before taking a deliberate sip. 

***

Bucky was pacing. He did that a lot, whenever he got too wound up in his own skin and needed an outlet. The rain was falling fast outside. They’d both come back with pneumonia if Steve took them for a walk today, but it was the only thing that calmed Bucky down even slightly. 

It had been five days and they had had this conversation round in circles almost constantly. 

“I gotta get out of here, Stevie.” Bucky had his back to Steve. “I gotta.”

“You will, Buck. I swear to you. And we’ll go get hotdogs on Brighton Beach and-”

Bucky cut him off by mumbling something. 

“What, Buck?”

“Don’t matter.” 

Steve crossed over to him, squeezed at his elbow. “Don’t be like that. Talk to me.”

Bucky shrugged him off, turned just enough that Steve could see the scowl etched into the lines of his face. “Ain’t ever gettin’ out.”

An uncomfortable weight settled into Steve’s gut. “Don’t say that.”

Bucky turned around and the scowl had morphed into a sneer that he would never have given before all this. “You really think ol’ Uncle Alex is gonna let me leave?”

“Not this again, Buck! It was your choice to come here!” 

Bucky folded his arms. “Sure.”

“Your signature’s on the goddamn forms. You think I don’t know your handwriting! You want me to show you? Again?!” 

“I told you I don’t give a shit what that says!” Bucky spat. “It’s fake! He faked it! Or… or he tricked me, or somethin’!”

Steve sank down onto the bed. He dropped his face into his hands, trying to will patience into himself. It was not good letting himself fall into this again. He mightn’t like Pierce all that much, but that didn’t mean he was some kind of boogeyman. “You’re sick, Buck. Can’t you hear yourself? We’re tryin’ to help you.” 

Bucky threw his arm out. “He’s doin this to me!”

Steve dropped his hands. “What? What is he doin’?”

Bucky looked confused, then frowned again. “He’s makin’ me… He’s tellin’ people… You’re gettin’ me all mixed up now.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault is it? I’m in league with Pierce and the President, and the goddamn devil himself to keep you here. Is that it?” 

“Don’t make fun of me!” 

Steve laughed, he couldn’t help himself. He was gonna go nuts himself in this place. “I ain’t, Buck. I swear. It’s just-”

“I know how it sounds, but Steve, you gotta trust me.”

Steve sighed. “I do, Buck. You have to know I do.” 

Bucky took a few staggering steps forward, until his hand was hovering over Steve’s arm. “It’s him, Stevie. He’s doin’  _ somethin’. _ ”

Steve was already shaking his head. He caught Bucky’s wrist, felt the bird bones twist under his fingers. “Buck, you gotta stop this.”

Bucky’s face twisted up again. “No, Stevie-”

He tried to pull away but Steve held on.

“You’re not thinking straight, Buck. I know it don’t make sense. But  _ you _ gotta trust  _ me _ , alright?”

Bucky was staring him down. “He got to you too.”

Steve sighed. “Don’t. Please.” 

“Don’t what, Steve? Tell the truth? You just wanna shut me up too, huh?"

Steve laughed again because what else could he do. "Yeah, sure. I got so tired of your big stupid mouth that I got you locked up in here." 

Bucky froze.

"Oh, come on, Buck! Why would I possibly do that? Why would  _ Pierce _ possibly do that? I'm not seeing a lot of motives here."

"The  _ money _ , Stevie," Bucky said, like it was obvious and it was only politeness that had stopped them from discussing it before.

"What money, Buck? You barely had two cents to rub together, and I know military pay ain't that hot. You're about as broke as me."

"Maybe that's why you want it," Bucky said darkly. 

Steve rubbed his face. He felt a little like when they were kids and used to spin round in circles ‘til they were too dizzy to stand up. "Stop this, Buck. This is…" 

He trailed off, but Bucky had no trouble hearing what he wasn't saying. 

"Nuts, Stevie? I ain't saying it isn't."

“Well, if you know then why are ya saying it!” Steve saw Bucky take a step back, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You think I want this? You think  _ I _ wanna be here? All I wanted was to help people! All I ever wanted was you back! And  _ this _ is what I got!”

Bucky’s face went blank, and as Steve felt his breathing coming back under control, his heart skipping and punishing him for getting upset, he heard what he’d just said. “Buck-”

“I’d like you to go now.” Bucky’s voice was like a gunshot. 

“Buck, I can’t just… We gotta talk about this…” 

“I’d like you to go now,” Bucky said again, with about as much emotion as before. 

Steve opened his mouth, and closed it again, when he realised there was nothing to say. What he’d already said… 

Bucky was utterly stiff. 

Steve turned to leave, but hesitated by the door. “I’m sorry.” 

Bucky didn’t offer up any affirmation. 

***

Bucky knew that he was coming up to his last chance. 

Steve didn’t believe him. Pierce was a slimy bastard, and he’d poisoned everyone against him. 

Bucky hated himself for being so weak, for letting his uncle take so much control. Now it was too late. There was nothing he could do. Here, Pierce’s word was law. If he ran, he would be caught. Quickly. 

Because he was weak. He hadn’t been out in so long that even his walks around the grounds with Steve left him out of breath. 

And even if he managed to get out of the grounds, there was no one who would believe him. Steve and Becca and Pierce would search for him, and he’d end up right back where he started. 

Locked up even tighter, if Uncle Alex had any say in it. 

No, Steve was his only chance. 

His last chance. 

But Steve…

Bucky didn’t blame him, not really. It was like something out of a bad novel. 

But if he couldn’t find someway to get through to him, he was goin’ to spend the rest of his life locked up in this goddamn room. 

At least until good old Uncle Alex found someway to get him to sign everything over to him. 

He weren’t stupid, who knew what bullshit Pierce had got him to sign before, but whatever he had it wasn’t enough. If he was alive, it was because Pierce needed him alive. 

He didn’t know if Pierce was that cold blooded, wanted to think not, because he still remembered their evenings together warmly. 

What he did know was that Alex needed something from him, and he was fucked if he was goin’ to give it up easy. 

***

He couldn’t say he was exactly shocked when Rumlow came for him. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Steve was essentially a spy in his camp. He would’ve reported back to Pierce.

Bucky had said far too much. 

He didn’t fight Rumlow. There wasn’t much point, Rumlow had pretty much every advantage. And he hadn’t been mindlessly cruel so far. 

Bucky needed every ally he could get. 

Alex was waiting for him by the window when they got to his office. His tie was ever so slightly askew, where he’d unfastened his top button. 

Bucky was savagely glad for it. For every scrap of stress Stevie had managed to lay at his door. 

Bucky inclined his head a little. “Uncle.”

Pierce didn’t respond, he just nodded at Rumlow and Bucky was shoved into his chair.

“Well, it appears you’ve been a little more talkative lately.” Pierce took his seat, glanced behind Bucky, to where Rumlow was presumably standing. He raised his finger. “No. You wait.” 

Bucky turned to see Rumlow’s face and jumped as Pierce snapped his fingers right next to his ear. 

“Eyes on me, nephew, wouldn’t do to have your mind wandering. We know how prone to that you are. I’m not going to insult either of our intelligence by pretending you aren’t aware of the situation.” 

“The situation.” 

As if Pierce didn’t have anything to do with any of it. 

“I’m hurt, nephew, that you feel the need to spread such rumors. Such slander. However, you are deranged, so I suppose such behavior can be forgiven.” 

Bucky forced a smile, baring his teeth. “I’m so grateful.” 

Pierce chose to ignore the sarcasm. He clasped his hands in front of him. “You do not think I am worthy of some gratitude, for all that I have done. For keeping your sister safe from you.” 

Bucky felt a shiver run over him, one that Pierce didn’t miss. 

“Oh,” Pierce grinned, “oh, yes. You remember that. It was I who had to keep your sister safe from your lunatic rages. Who knows what would have happened. Who knows what would have happened to your  _ Stevie _ if I hadn’t been there to keep you in check!” 

Bucky went cold. 

Rumlow was standing at parade rest over by the wall, staring at some spot in the middle distance. His expression had not changed. 

“No!” Pierce rapped his hand on the desk. “No, don’t look at him. You’ll find no help there, not unless he wants his own sordid little private life to see the light of day.”

Rumlow still didn’t move. 

“Now,” Pierce dragged his attention back, “you might be delusional, nephew, but you are not a fool. All I require is your signature, in front of Mr. Zola, and this will be at an end.” 

Yeah, and him too. 

“I ain’t giving you shit.” 

Pierce tutted. “Your language is not fit for a gentleman.” 

“Lucky I can’t see any then.” 

“Enough now!” 

Bucky couldn’t help but smile. “What spooked you?” 

There was a nerve twitching in his uncle’s jaw. He saw Pierce deliberately slow his breathing. He fastened his top button and straightened his tie. 

“I have been lenient with you, because of your service to this country. That is at an end now. You are a faggot and a sinner, and by all rights I could have you locked up in a room tinier than this one, but I am gracious, and I believe you are sick.” 

Pierce gestured to Rumlow, and before Bucky could even turn his head, he felt the prick of a needle in the back of his neck. Ice cold spread out from the pinprick, by the time his blood took it to his head, he would be woozy. 

He hoped to God he would remember. 

God damn them both. 

Pierce was already beginning to swim in front of him. 

“Now, James, for now, all I need from you now is your word that you will sign in front of Zola. If you do that, then you will be free to go. I will instruct Rogers than your institutionalisation is no longer in your best interest, and you will be his problem.” 

It was a good offer. 

A really good offer. 

It was all Bucky wanted. To just go home with Steve. He ached for it. He wanted to forget everything else and let Steve shield him from the rest of the world. He could turn himself into a recluse in their tenement, and never have to see another soul again. 

Save Becca, maybe, sometimes. If she could bear to look at him. 

He didn’t know what shining star had brought him Steve back, and he didn’t know why Steve still wanted a broken cripple, but it was his good luck that Stevie did want him. 

All of his luck.

He made himself look at Pierce, really look at him. His mind was beginning to feel foggy again, but he was clear enough. 

Uncle Alex was lying. 

He needed Bucky to sign the money away. Why? 

Not to have away with it, he was certain Zola could have made it disappear somewhere if that was the plan. 

Pierce needed it to be legitimate. Needed him to sign. 

It was a will. 

There was no other explanation, or none that Bucky could bring to mind. His next of kin was Becca. If he were to die, it would all go to her. 

Uncle Alex needed him to sign the will that Zola had written, and then to get his hands on the money… 

Well, Bucky might have been a lot of things, but Alex was right that he wasn’t a fool. No way was he signing away his last insurance. 

Bucky sat back in his chair. “I’m not giving you anything.” 

Pierce’s face grew icy cold. He pointed a thin finger in Bucky’s face. “That money is mine by right of virtue, and I will have it.” He looked at his hand and, shakily, released the tension in his fist. He swept the hand back through his hair, composed again. 

“If you don’t do it,” he said, calmly, “then you will not see Rogers again. I will ensure it. You will not see your sister or her child. You will not see another living soul, save for myself and Mr. Rumlow here. I guarantee it. Do not push me, James.” 

Bucky’s mouth had dropped open. He knew he shouldn’t have been shocked, after everything but despite himself, he was. To hear Pierce say it all so plainly. 

And… Stevie… 

He forced himself not to think of it. 

Not to think of going to sleep at night, knowing that he wouldn’t see Steve’s smile again. It was beyond imagining. 

He swallowed tightly. He couldn’t be taken in. 

It was a lie either way. 

He was  _ dead _ either way. 

He licked over his dry lips, and leaned forward so that there would be no doubt Pierce understood him. 

“Good,” he said, “because I wouldn’t have them within ten thousand miles of you.” 

Pierce’s lips went thin. His jaw drew tight. “Take him back to his room.” 

Bucky allowed himself to smile, as Rumlow dragged him to his feet. 


	8. Chapter 8

“It hurts me to say this, Mr. Rogers, but perhaps it would be best if you returned to the city.”

An open look crossed Rogers’ face, distressed and hurt. 

Alexander clasped his hands in front of him. “I hate to lose you, you understand. Your work has been exemplary. I’ll see you receive an outstanding reference-”

“I don’t give a shit about a reference,” Rogers snapped. His ears went pink. “I mean.. Sir…”

Alexander raised his hand. “I understand the situation is emotive. My nephew's health is delicate and your loyalty to him does you credit.” He raised his voice to keep Rogers from interrupting. ”It is to that loyalty that I must appeal.” 

Rogers looked to be on the brink of open tears. 

“I'm afraid that your presence here distresses him. He is unstrung at the best of times, but in your presence he is further destabilized.”

Rogers eyes were wide. “But... but he remembers. He remembers when he's with me.”

Alexander let himself smile sadly. “That is precisely the problem. Sometimes the mind needs to forget in order to heal. Sometimes such amnesia can protect from further trauma. His mind was unable to cope with the trauma it had faced, and created a fantasy in which he could exist safely. In your presence those fantasies manifest as paranoia, as…” He smiled again. “well, you have seen them.”

Rogers looked away. There was a thin line of distress between his brows. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times. “But he knows me.”

Alexander let the silence sit for a moment. “It is no coincidence,” he said delicately, “that after every treatment he forgets his trauma. You remind him.”

Rogers looked back at him again and through the sheen of unshed tears, his eyes were almost painfully blue.

Alexander watched him, watched a subtle change in his expression, something behind his eyes, and he understood. His nephew’s adoration was not one-sided.

How could it have been?

He had to fight to keep the disgust from his face, thinking of his nephew being sodomized by this boy. It made the bile rise in his throat.

“You think it's my fault?” Rogers sniffed, in utter misery and rubbed his hand across his nose.

“There's no use in assigning blame. The fact remains that James may be better served by being allowed to forget. That may allow him to live out whatever life remains for him in peace.”

Rogers mouth dropped open. “Whatever remains… you don't... you don't think he'll get better?”

Alexander leaned forward to pat his knee. “I know that's not what you wanted to hear, son.” 

“It's…” Rogers trailed off, his eyes on the floor. He swallowed sharply. “Can I see him before I..?”

“Of course, son.” If there was any doubt left in Alexander's mind, the open devastation on Rogers’ face put it to rest. “It might be that he will be well enough to receive letters in the future.”

Rogers made a noise in the back of his throat, a sob, half held back. “I... I can't…”

He stood, keeping his face turned away from Alexander, no doubt a pathetic attempt to hide his tears.

“Take your time, son,” Alexander said, magnanimously, “but it may be better if you didn't linger.” 

***

When Steve came back, Bucky was asleep on the bed. He was curled on his side, sun warmed in the light from the window. The yellow light took the paleness from his skin, and if it weren’t for the way his hair fanned out behind him and the bones of his ankles stuck out too far, Steve could almost believe it was years ago. 

He hovered in the doorway, unwilling to wake him when Bucky got so little natural sleep as it was. 

In the end though, he couldn’t help himself. 

It was nothing vulgar, anyway. Nothing obscene, to sit at his side. Comforting a friend in his illness.

He shut the door anyway. 

He balanced himself on the end of the bed and crawled so that he was pressed between Bucky’s warmth and the wall. He dropped his hand into Bucky’s hair, where the greasy strands were curling above his ear. 

Steve ached with how much he loved him. How much he missed him. 

“Stevie,” Bucky said softly. 

“Mmmm, sweetheart?” 

“I shouldn’t be here.” Bucky had not opened his eyes. Had not even moved. “I know you can’t believe it. I know that, and I don’t blame you, but Pierce is behind all of this.”

Steve hummed to buy himself time to figure out what to say. “I know you’re scared-”

“I’m not,” Bucky said sharply, “I’m not scared.” He pulled in a tight breath. “Don’t reckon I got it in me anymore. I’ve seen things… But anyway, don’t matter. Pierce is a goddamn sly bastard, and I don’t…” Bucky breathed in again, hard. “I don’t want you to think on it, cos there was nothing you could do.” 

Steve hummed again, and let his hand fall against Bucky’s cheek, stroking over the rough stubble that Bucky would never have put up with before. “Whaddaya mean?”

“I mean,” Bucky looked at Steve out of the corner of his eyes, “I mean that I don’t blame you. I know it sounds crazy, alla this. And I don’t want you blamin’ yourself either.”

Steve stroked a thumb over his jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Buck.”

Bucky swallowed tightly. “One of these days, I’m gonna wind up dead.”

Steve made a noise deep in his throat. 

“No,” Bucky said desperately, “you gotta listen to this. I’m gonna wind up dead. And then you’ll see. Pierce’ll get everythin’. Inherit it, ya know? And then you’ll see.” 

Steve started shaking his head. “Buck, stop.”

“Then you’ll realise-”

“There ain’t no money, ‘cept your pension, and that ain’t so hot.”

Bucky carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I don’t want you blamin’ yourself, cos there wasn’t anythin’ you coulda done. Pierce is a tricky bastard, but I…” Tears were spilling out over his cheeks now, falling to wet his hair where it was pooled beneath him. “Woulda left it to you, ya know that? You and Becca. So, then you’ll see.”

Steve was pretty sure his heart was turning itself to lead in his chest, shrivelling up inside him. “You need your medicine, Buck.”

“But you gotta get outta here then, Stevie. You hear me? There’s no fightin’ him. You gotta get out. Becca’ll see you right. She’ll… I don’t know where she is, but you find her, alright?”

Steve swallowed back the lump in his throat. His voice was tight. “You need your medicine.” 

“Please,” Bucky was suddenly grasping at his hand, “please, not tonight. I want to… feel it, you know? Don’t, don’t take it away from me.”

Bucky was squeezing his hand hard, and Steve was weak. Oh so fucking weak when it came to Bucky and that goddamn look on his face. 

And  _ that _ was why he had to go.

“Alright,” he said simply. 

Bucky was still crying. Big wet tears that ran over his nose and his cheek to drip into the sheets beneath him. “I don’t wanna leave you. I don’t wanna go.”

Steve couldn’t help but lean over him, grasp at his shoulders. Press his face into the fabric of his pullover. “You ain’t goin anywhere. That was years ago. I found you. I got you back.” 

Bucky shook his head. “There’s no coming back from this.” 

Steve felt his eyes burn. “Don’t you dare, you hear me?”

Because he couldn't bear it. He couldn't. 

If Bucky went on without him, then Steve was going to follow. He was going with him. 

For five endless years he’d learned a way to live without him. But the smell of him still lingered, and the warmth of skin against skin, and the sound of his voice in the dark of the tenement. 

If it was overly dramatic, Steve didn’t care. He would not survive the loss again. He had no desire to. Only to fold himself into Bucky’s grave with him, if Bucky chose to go. There was no threat of mortal sin, or hellfire and damnation which could keep him from it. He would cleave himself to Bucky’s bones if he had to. 

If that was the only way to have him. 

“Don’t you dare go without me again, you hear me?” Steve said, through tears he couldn’t hold back. “Don’t you dare.” He kissed the side of Bucky’s temple, feeling the fragile sun-starved skin. He could almost feel the tips of his fingers carving bruises into Bucky’s flesh. “Listen, I gotta go away for a while. I don’t… I gotta, okay? But you gotta promise me you’ll wait for me here.”

Steve laughed wetly, squeezed Bucky’s shoulder. “We’ve done this before, ain’t we? I swear it won’t be as long this time. But you gotta wait for me.” 

Bucky breathed deep beneath him, warm and fragile, like the wind might blow him away. “I’ll try.” 

Steve rolled him onto his back so that he could kiss him. Bucky’s lips were dry and peeling, but he tasted the same. 

“I’ll find Becca, and we’ll sort this. But  _ you _ wait for me,” Steve said again. 

Bucky didn’t answer. Just kissed him again.

***

Steve could barely keep from crying. It couldn't be true, he couldn't bear it to be true. 

He’d thought before that he wouldn’t survive losing Bucky again, and now he knew it was true. He’d intended to follow Bucky when he went, but what if that was selfish? If Bucky, his Bucky, had gone already, then perhaps it was him who was mad for holding on. 

Perhaps Pierce was right. Bucky deserved to find whatever happiness he could and if Steve couldn’t be a part of that… If Steve was only hurting him? 

He was dizzy. 

He staggered into the wall, and doubled over with his hands on his knees. He couldn't catch his breath. His heart was racing and skipping and he was going to faint. He was going to be sick. 

He couldn’t leave Bucky again. Not if it might be the last time. 

Bucky had promised. He had  _ promised _ , but what did the word of a madman count for? 

He would have to leave tonight, if he didn’t then he would never go. He would have to see if he could make the last train out from Fairbanks, otherwise he’d have to see if he could find rooms in town for the night. 

Perhaps... perhaps, he could just wait at the station. He had the absurd thought that perhaps he should just step in front of the goddamn train.

A fresh wave of dizziness sent him back to leaning over, and his stomach turned over itself like he might throw up. 

No, he had to stop. 

Had to stop this. There was no point in getting so far ahead of himself. One foot in front of the other and the first thing he had to do was gather his things. There wasn’t much. He’d brought little with him from New York, and he hadn’t accumulated all that much over the months he’d been at the hospital. 

The last few months felt like some kind of bizarre nightmare, and when he got back to New York, he wouldn’t have anything to show for it at all. 

Steve did retch this time, though not enough to bring anything up. 

That thought again, of just stepping off the platform or off the bridge. 

But no, it wasn’t fair. If Buck was in his right mind, then he would never forgive himself, or Steve, and Steve couldn’t be that selfish, even if Bucky would never know. 

And there was Abraham to consider. His old colleagues and friends. Becca. He wasn’t dumb enough to think that he wouldn’t be missed. It would be a selfish, selfish thing to do. To let the people who loved him grieve over him when there was no need. He’d done enough grieving and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone else. 

He took a deep breath to settle his heart. Steve straightened his back and started to walk.

He had sworn to Bucky that he would find Becca, and perhaps she might have some answers that could help Bucky, but even if not...

If Bucky… If Bucky needed to forget him in order to have a life, then he owed it to Bucky to do the same. He owed him more than he could ever repay. 

Even as he thought it, he knew that he could never do it. There was no life without Bucky, and there never had been, but he owed it to him to try at least. 

***

“Bring my nephew to me,” Alexander said, clutching his brandy to his chest, savouring the burn it brought to his heart. 

If he was indulging more lately, then he had only himself to blame. For not seeing the threat that Rogers posed earlier. 

For not dealing with his nephew month before Rogers had even arrived. 

It was sentimentality, he knew. That this boy was his nephew, a child he remembered being born before the feud that had begun with the father spread to the sisters as well. 

That and… he had never killed a man before. When he had set out, he hadn’t considered that he would find the thought so distasteful. 

_ Thou shalt not kill. _

James was a sinner. He would burn for his crimes against God, but Alexander could not bring himself to send him there. 

The boy was young. Very, very young… 

Alexander squeezed the glass in his hand hard. 

God had abandoned him. He had kept his faith, and lost Abigail, lost his chance at children he would have cherished. God had abandoned him, and so he would break his covenant with God. 

“Bring my nephew to me,” he said again, “make sure he is compliant before you come. And then follow Rogers. Make sure he gets on that train. Do not allow him to return.”

He turned quickly enough to see Rumlow stiffen. “What are you telling me to do?” 

Alexander smiled at Rumlow’s discomfort. “I’m sure a man like you has enough imagination for that.” 

Rumlow didn’t move. There was something dark in his expression. 

It gave Pierce a kind of savage pride, at having a man with all of that vulgar fire under his boot. 

“You have a problem, Mr. Rumlow?” 

Rumlow’s jaw tightened. “I don’t see why you had to bring the kid into it.” 

Alexander smiled. “Mr. Rogers brought himself into it.” He stepped forward, up into Rumlow’s face. “And I did not expect such sensibility from you. But then again, perhaps all of that is in the blood after all. The boy does have a pretty face, doesn’t he?” 

Rumlow stiffened again. 

Alexander moved to retake his seat. “You’d do well to remember your own situation, Mr. Rumlow, before you start pining over that pretty face. Now,” he finished his glass, “go and fetch my nephew.”

***

Steve kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. The town which had seemed so quaint, now just seemed filled with people who wished to delay him. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, certainly not to any blushing shopgirls who had seen him with his suitcase, and wanted to know why he was leaving so suddenly and without so much as a goodbye. 

“Sir!” 

Steve closed his eyes, and kept walking. 

The postmaster. 

The old guy could talk himself blue in the face. 

He was going to miss his train. 

“Sir!” 

The postmaster called again and this time Steve turned to see the man doddering down his shop steps. He would chase Steve down given half a chance. 

Steve plastered on a smile. 

He couldn’t let the old man fall on the wet street. 

“I’m afraid I’m late for my train.” 

The old man stumbled up to him. “There’s a telegram for you, sir.” 

A telegram. From Abraham, it must be. It didn’t matter now. He could talk to him face to face tomorrow. 

Steve smiled again, and felt like it might crack his face open. “I haven’t time. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh, but you must! The gentleman will have paid a lot!” 

Yeah, well, so had he, but there was no helping that. 

He looked at the man’s earnest face. Arguing here was just wasting more time.

“Alright, but I can’t stay.” 

The postmaster was already tottering back to his shop. “Won’t take a moment, sir.”

He was very, very slow. He started rifling through the paperwork at his counter when he got inside. “Won’t take a minute.” 

Steve glanced at his watch. His smile was beginning to slip. “I really can’t wait.” 

“There we are!” The postmaster pulled out a sheet with a flourish. “Your telegram, sir.” 

Steve was about to take it and dash when the first word caught his eye. He couldn't breathe, as he read it over and over. 

CEPHAELINE IS AN EMETIC STOP USED IN CASE OF ACCIDENTAL POISONINGS STOP HOPE THAT HELPS STOP A.E.

An emetic. 

Even if Steve didn't remember what that meant, Abraham's next statement would have clarified it.

It induced vomiting. 

Pierce had been giving Bucky an emetic. 

It wasn't in Bucky's head. It wasn't some psychosomatic anxiety. Bucky had been throwing up because Pierce had been forcing him… 

But why...? 

Steve shook his head, and leaned against the wall. It didn't matter. It didn't matter what Pierce's reasoning had been. Bucky was starving. He was literally wasting away. And Pierce had lied about giving him an emetic. 

Bucky was right. 

He'd been right all along. 

He didn't know what Pierce wanted, Bucky's story still didn't make much sense on that count, but it didn't matter. Pierce was hurting him, and Steve was damned if he was going to let it carry on for a single second more. 

"Hey!" Steve called for the postmaster. "Does your boy have a cart? A carriage? Anything I can use?" 

The postmaster doddered his way out of the back. "What was that?" 

Steve half wanted to shake him. "Where can I get a carriage up to the Hydra?" 

The postmaster stroked his chin. "Well, there's no cabs running at this hour. Mind you the-" 

"Rogers!" 

The shout from outside cut of whatever ramble was coming and Steve didn't feel guilty in the slightest for sprinting for the door. 

Rumlow was seated on a horse, looking about as animated as Steve had ever seen him. 

The horse was trotting and nickering around the yard, barely under control. 

"Your boy's in trouble," Rumlow said. "Don't argue, you think I don't know a faggot when i see one? We gotta move." 

Steve opened his mouth, a little like a fish, and then closed it again. "I can't ride." 

Rumlow didn't miss a beat. "Then get up."

Steve didn't need telling twice. He stumbled a little but managed to get himself seated. Rumlow turned the horse in the same movement.

"Just tell me why," Steve asked.

There were a couple of seconds broken only by the horses hooves. 

"Pierce thinks he can hold everyone in the palm of his hand," Rumlow said gruffly, "he isn't holding me over a barrel."

Steve nodded. That was good enough for him. 

He didn’t know whether Rumlow noticed or not, but it didn’t matter. Rumlow kicked and the horse took off like there was fire behind them. 

***

“My patience is at an end, James.” 

“My name is Bucky.” 

Pierce waved his hand. “I care little for what degenerates wish to call themselves.”

It took Bucky a second. “What’d you call me?”

Pierce was smiling like a feral dog. “Did you think I didn’t know? That you were oh so clever and discreet? I knew the second I saw you. I’ll admit, Rogers took me longer, for a while I thought that you were one of those… one of  _ those _ .” Pierce evidently couldn’t find a word that was enough. “Lusting after real men. But then I realised. I  _ saw _ .”

Bucky realised his mouth was open. He forced a laugh. “Steve? Now you’re dreamin’.” 

He tried to keep laughing, to play it off, but suddenly his cheek was burning. He reeled backwards. Blinked stupidly as he realised that Pierce had hit him. 

He was so surprised it didn’t even occur to him to throw a punch back.

“Don’t lie to me,” Pierce’s eyes were blazing. He seemed to collect himself and sat back down at his desk. “It matters little in any case. Sit down, nephew, we have a lot to discuss.” 

Bucky didn’t move. 

Pierce clasped his hands in front of him. “I’m not going to beat around the bush, you’ve made it clear that you know what I want, so I’m going to lay it out plainly. You’re going to sit down and you’re going to write out a will leaving everything to me, then you’re going to sign it. In return, I won’t bring Rogers down.” 

Bucky’s mouth was dry, when he tried to speak he found he couldn't. 

“It is true, of course,” Pierce continued, “though it wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t. My word would be enough. But you’re a smart boy, you know that.” He began rifling through the papers on his desk, drawing out pen and ink. “It’s hard labor, the punishment for sodomy. Incarceration. Even afterwards, he’ll not work in this field again, perhaps he’ll be able to find work laboring, though I imagine being found out by those sort of men would be less… judicial.” 

Bucky’s heart was beating hard, and all he could think about was Steve’s. Steve’s rabbit heart. It would beat itself out if Steve was forced to work. The thought of Steve in prison… He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

He refused to even contemplate anything else. 

“But…” Bucky felt woozy, fuzzy, and for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t certain it was the meds, “but it’s not legal…” He gestured to the paper Pierce had set in front of him. “There’s no witnesses. It’s not…” 

Pierce hummed, still smiling. “You’re right, of course. It’s less… indisputable than I had planned. But rest assured Mr. Zola is an excellent solicitor, and there is precedence in law for terminal declarations to stand.”

Bucky blinked at him again. 

And then understood. 

Whether Pierce had it in him to do the job himself, or whether he intended to coerce Bucky into it, Bucky wasn’t going to survive the night. 

He felt his eyes start to burn, and he hated himself. 

He wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t… He didn’t know. It was frustration and anger and despair at how fucking unfair all of this was. 

He’d only ever tried to be a good man. He’d honoured and respected his family. He’d done his duty for his country. He’d worked hard. He hadn’t done anything to deserve this. 

Neither had Steve, who was bright and beautiful and kind and righteous. 

“Why?” He asked simply, through tears. He wasn’t sure whether he was asking Pierce or God.

Pierce was watching him coolly, hands still clasped. He poured himself a glass of brandy from his crystal decanter, replacing the stopper with absolute care before he spoke. “I see what you’re asking, ‘what have I done to deserve this?’. It’s a fair question, and you’re in no way the first to ask it. I have.”

Pierce slid open one of the drawers beneath his desk and took out a small vial, which Bucky recognised from numerous nights before. He emptied it into the glass of brandy. 

“I grew up not so far away from your own origins, yours or Rogers. I went to church every Sunday, and to the church school afterwards. I worked hard to better myself, and it  _ was _ hard. It took hard work, but I did it. I got an education, and a profession. I found that there were some who didn’t appreciate hard work, to whom the circumstance of birth mattered more, but I paid them little attention, and if I had to work harder to get what was owed to me then it showed strength of character.

“Then, of course,” Pierce continued, “I met my wife, your aunt, who I adored more than life itself. Your grandfather refused to give his blessing of course, because of my faith, perhaps, or my origins, or my profession. Perhaps no one would have done for his girls. Regardless, we didn’t care. We were young, and in love, and nothing else mattered.”

He poured himself a second glass of brandy.

“We were married in Spring. I watched as men who were duller and less qualified than me, passed me over for appointments. I watched as licentious whores spewed out children they couldn’t provide for, while my own wife lost child after child. I cared for lunatics and criminals, and watched my Abigail grow paler and weaker, while I could do nothing.”

Pierce downed his brandy. “Then I heard that your grandfather had died, and that he’d taken all that wealth with him to the grave. He didn’t leave any of it to me, though I’d nursed and grieved his daughter. He didn’t leave it to your sister though she had a child to care for and a household to run. He left it to you.”

Pierce slid the other glass across the table towards him. “You want to know ‘why you?’ Because you have at least a little of what is owed to me. Because you are a deviant and a faggot. And because I can.”

Bucky remembered to breathe. 

Pierce was mad. A lunatic as much as anyone else in this place, even if most of the world wouldn’t think so. 

And Bucky couldn't think of a single way out. 

Pierce nodded towards the glass. “Drink it,” he said, simply, “and write your note. I’ve no real quarrel with Rogers, he’ll get what’s coming or he won’t, as God wills it, but you must understand now that I will destroy him utterly if you force my hand.” 

Bucky knew that Pierce meant it, there was nothing in his face to suggest that it was a trick or a lie. 

Steve had left. He was gone, and he was safe, hopefully as far away from Pierce as it was possible to get. But it also meant that Bucky’s lifeline was gone. There was no one else to appeal to, and too many locked doors between him and escape. 

He breathed in deeply and picked up the glass. “What do you want me to write?”

***

Steve wasn’t sure he breathed for most of the ride. 

Rumlow explained, roughly, what had been happening, but he was in the dark himself about a lot of it. What was clear was that Pierce had been hurting Bucky, had been instructing Rumlow to hurt Bucky. 

Steve didn’t know exactly what had brought about Rumlow’s change of heart, and he didn’t much care. 

It did cross his mind that it was some kind of trap, but he couldn’t for the life of him come up with a reason why Pierce would send him away only to call him back, and besides it would get him back to Bucky’s side. That was all he cared about.

He’d work out anything else on the fly. 

***

When Bucky was finished, Pierce pulled the paper away from him lightly. His handwriting had gotten worse down the page, as the spiked brandy had begun to take effect. 

Pierce scanned over it quickly.

“S’all there.” Bucky couldn't quite get his mouth around the words. He sounded drunk. “Ya watched me write it.”

Pierce smiled sharply. “Quite.” 

He rose from the desk and opened a cupboard on the far wall. Bucky could see stocks of medications lined neatly up on the shelves. Pierce selected a handful and brought them back to the desk. 

“I had intended it to look natural, of course.”

“Of course,” Bucky said, and then couldn’t stop the laugh that burst out of him. Maybe he was mad after all. 

Pierce was scowling at him. “Now I know you’re not a pious man, but if you would like to say anything or to pray then I will give you that chance.” 

Bucky’s body was beginning to feel weightless. He laughed again. “I’ll see you downstairs, doc.” 

For a second, Pierce looked like a demon, and then he lashed out again. 

Bucky felt the blow distantly, like it was happening in a dream. His balance was off though, and he couldn’t right himself before he slid out of the chair. He thudded onto the floor on his bad shoulder, and even through the drugs, he felt the twinge of nerves set on fire. 

It jolted him half the way back to consciousness, and a sudden clarity washed over him. 

He was going to die. 

Pierce was going to kill him.

Not some in nebulous imagined future, right now. Unless he did something. 

He tried to push himself up onto his knees, as a hand grabbed at the back of his neck. He threw his arm out and caught Pierce solidly across the cheek, tried to scramble up to his feet. 

But even with the advantage in age, Pierce had him beat in weight and stamina after so long locked up. 

He barely got to the door before an arm hooked around his throat and he was dragged backwards. He tried to throw another punch but with Pierce behind him there was no way to land a hit. And then Pierce dug his thumb into the back of his bad shoulder and his entire body spasmed. 

He thudded onto his back and the breath was knocked out of him. 

Pierce was knelt over him. His tie was askew and the skin was split where Bucky had elbowed him in the face. 

Bucky surged up, trying to get his hand around Pierce’s throat, but one handed and on his back he was at a distinct disadvantage. Pierce used both hands to slam his wrist down into the floorboards. He smiled again, as he knelt his weight down on Bucky’s hand. 

Bucky felt his bones give and grind together. He screamed. 

“I thought you were cleverer than this, nephew.” Pierce scrabbled behind him for the bottles of drugs. “We had an agreement. If you think I’ll let your Rogers go now, you’re sadly mistaken.” He unscrewed one the bottles. “To think I thought people like you could love anyone. That you could keep your word.”

“Go to Hell!” 

Bucky wished he could come up with something a bit snappier, but in fairness, between the meds and the blows, his mind was quickly shutting down. 

Pierce it seemed didn’t have anything else to say. He grabbed a hold of Bucky’s jaw and forced his fingers between his teeth, then he simply upended the bottle into his mouth. 

Bucky coughed as the liquid hit the back of his throat, managed to get up a good half of it up, but Pierce already had a second one ready and Bucky half breathed it in. Pierce’s hand closed on his mouth and as hard as Bucky fought he couldn’t dislodge him. Couldn’t breathe. He swallowed by reflex. 

How many would it take to kill him? 

How many could Pierce force down him before his strength gave out? He was an old man after all. 

Bucky already felt dizzy and sick. Like he was floating outside his body. 

For the first time, he was scared.

***

“Which way?” Steve shouted as he crossed the threshold of the hospital. 

“Go for Pierce. I’ll check Barnes’ room.”

Rumlow had started sprinting before Steve could answer. Steve followed, peeling off down the corridor towards Pierce’s office. 

The door was ajar and Steve barely slowed before he crashed into it, burning with rage, all he could think about was getting to Pierce. 

He thudded through the door, and stumbled as he tried to avoid the figures on the floor. He didn’t manage it. His knees caught what he realised was Pierce’s back and he went down heavily. He felt something give way in his wrist the second before pain ricocheted up his arm. 

He could hear Pierce groaning behind him and forced himself up to his knees. 

Pierce was on his side, clutching at his ribs, trying to stand. Steve had knocked him clean off Bucky, who was lying still on the floor. 

“Buck!” 

Steve tried to scramble over to him. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, but not quick enough to react. He felt the jolt of the impact on the back of his skull dully. His vision flickered in and out as he realised he was face down on the floor. The back of his head was thudding with pain. He could smell alcohol at the back of his nose, pooling around him. The shimmer of broken glass. 

Mixing with the blood… 

Pierce had… 

He pushed himself up again because he had to get to Bucky. He had to stop Pierce.

He staggered to his feet. 

Pierce was between him and Bucky. His hair was falling in thin strands over his face. Steve felt himself go faint as he noticed the broken bottle in his hand. 

With the sneer across his face, he was almost unrecognisable as the slick suited man Steve had met weeks before. 

Pierce raised the broken glass. “I should have got rid of you the second you recognised him!” He gestured back to where Bucky was splayed out. 

Steve felt himself raise his hands, distantly, as if someone else was controlling his limbs. “Alexander, please. Come on.”

“Don’t talk to me like that! I was chairing research panels when you were still shitting all over yourself!” 

Steve took a step back. Pierce was beginning to look unhinged. 

“I…” Steve didn’t have a clue what to say. “Just let me check on Bucky. That’s… You can do whatever you want, but let me check on Buck.”

Pierce laughed. “Oh I don’t think there’s any need for that. Such a shame,” he waved the bottle between them, and the smirk across his face grew larger, “a crime of passion!”

He lunged forward, broken bottle aimed towards Steve’s throat. Steve ducked, threw his weight into Pierce’s stomach. They crashed into the desk. Steve didn’t know where the broken bottle ended up. He couldn’t really feel his own body. He was certain he was dying, that Pierce had stabbed him and he was bleeding out. 

He felt suddenly dizzy, pulled back just enough to see the feral sneer on Pierce’s face, and to scream as Pierce dug clawing fingers into his broken wrist. He went faint, dropped to his knees. Pierce loomed up in front of him, squeezing his wrist with one hand and raising the shard of glass with the other. 

Steve blinked, aware that he should be doing something but unable to think of anything at all. 

He blinked again. 

A flicker of black. 

He saw Pierce’s triumphant expression transform into surprise. Saw him crumple over onto his side. Rumlow stood behind him.

Blinked. 

Black. 

“Hey, Rogers!” 

He blinked and Rumlow was right up in his face. Snapped his fingers. 

Black. 

“Rogers? Shit!”

He blinked again, and his head cleared a little. “‘M alright.” 

Rumlow was stood up, and for the first time Steve’d ever seen, he actually grinned. “Shit, thought you’d cashed in your chips.” 

He offered his hand and Steve let himself be pulled up from his knees.

He swayed a little, nausea settled in his gut, but it was alright. 

“I’m alright,” he said again. 

“Good, cause you look like a corpse!” Rumlow tugged his chin down so he could see the back of his head. He clicked his tongue. “Head wounds always bleed like a bitch.” 

“Bucky,” Steve said suddenly, like it was a fully formed thought. 

He pushed Rumlow aside, barely spared a glance at Pierce’s unmoving form, because Bucky was hurt. 

He dropped to his knees at Bucky’s side. 

Bucky was drenched in sweat, and totally still. His eyes were open, pupils shrunk tiny even in the bright office. But not dead. Steve’d seen enough dead people in his work and Bucky was not dead. 

He could almost cry, but he pushed it away. He had to concentrate, couldn’t lose it now. 

Steve scanned over his body, tugging up his shirt. There wasn’t a mark on him. He wasn’t bleeding, Steve pressed his hand beneath his head to make sure. If he held his hand over Bucky’s mouth he could feel his breath was too slow and shallow. The tips of his fingers were beginning to turn blue. 

Steve could feel his panic rising because he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know and there was no one to ask and Bucky was going to die, he would  _ die _ .

Steve ran through it again. Clammy. Constricted pupils. Slow breathing. No injuries. 

Laudanum. 

He’d seen it before, with Abraham. A woman who’d drunk a whole bottle of it. 

“Poisoned.” He looked up. “Brock, cephaeline.” 

Rumlow nodded once, and ran. 

Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand, automatically trying to rub some heat into it. His wrist was burning when he moved it, but he didn’t care. “Come on, Buck. I’m here now, gonna sort you out. Just give it a minute.” 

Rumlow couldn’t have been gone more than about five minutes, but it felt like forever. He just kept talking because there was nothing else he could do and it kept his heart rate from soaring too high. He could feel it getting more and more out of kilter as it sped up, and wouldn’t that be a kicker, if he keeled over before Rumlow could get back. 

He heard Rumlow’s footsteps up the corridor, and threw his hand out behind him. As soon as he felt the glass in his hand, he popped the lid, lifted Bucky’s head carefully and poured the bottle down his throat. There was a second before Steve felt him start to cough, and for the first time in years, he thanked God. 

He lifted Bucky up properly and held his head back, so that he wouldn’t choke. 

He coughed again, and then his whole body convulsed. Steve realised what was happening, and flipped them over just before Bucky started retching into the floor. 

“You’re alright,” Steve rubbed at his back with his good hand, tucked the other one up close to his chest. He met Rumlow’s eye, and suddenly couldn’t stop laughing. He never thought he’d be so happy to see Bucky puking his guts up. Bucky was trembling and gagging, but he was breathing, and he was upright. Steve pressed his face in between Bucky’s shoulder blades. “You’re alright.”

***

Eventually, Bucky calmed down and moved shakily to sit back. He rubbed his hand over his face, then blinked blearily at Steve. 

“Stevie?” 

“Yeah, Buck.” Steve smiled. “I’m right here.” 

The wonderment fell from Bucky’s face as he scanned over him. “Stevie, what the fuck?” 

Steve started to laugh again, buried his face in Bucky’s shoulder. 

“What…? Whose… Is that  _ your _ blood?” 

Steve thought he might be sick, he was laughing so hard. 

Bucky must have looked to Rumlow, because he heard a gruff ‘yeah, it’s his’, and that just made him laugh harder. 

“Stevie, you fuckin’ punk! What the fuck did you do?” 

Steve sat up, his eyes streaming. He gave his most charming grin. “I came to save you.” 

Bucky was just glaring at him. “You stupid fuck,  _ I _ was trying to save you!” 

Steve just lost it again. 

***

“I hate to break up the moment, but we got some figuring out to do.”

Steve finally sobered himself up enough to look towards Rumlow, who had clearly been dragging his hand through his neatly styled hair. “Sorry, Brock. What do you need?” 

“Well, firstly, what are we gonna do with him?” Rumlow jerked his head over towards Pierce’s limp figure. 

Steve stared stupidly for a second. “He’s not..?”

“No. The son of a bitch is very much not.” 

Steve’s first thought was to march over there and throttle the bastard himself, but that was really just the anger talking. He didn’t have it in him to just straight up murder an unconscious man. 

He dragged Bucky closer to him instead. A silent promise that Steve would never take anyone’s word over his again. 

“I’ll do it, you know,” Rumlow said, coolly. 

Steve met his eyes, trying to judge if he was serious. But then, who was he kidding, he didn’t think Rumlow had ever made a joke in his life. “You would?” 

Rumlow nodded, looked over at Pierce and nodded again. “It’s nothing to me. I’ve killed a lot of men, and most of them didn’t deserve it half as much as him.” 

Steve looked back at Pierce. Did he want him dead? 

Some dark piece of his soul did. Definitely.

“He won’t stop,” Steve said, to get his thoughts in order. “And his word is worth more than ours. We won’t be safe until he’s dead… But then, no one will believe us…” 

They’d all hang for murder, if they weren’t careful. 

Rumlow shrugged. “It’s the same either way. I’m cutting out of here either way. I ain’t sticking around.” 

Steve hesitated. They could do that. He didn’t want to, didn’t want to give up the life he’d built, but he would if it kept him and Bucky together. 

“Don’t,” Bucky said softly from his side. 

Steve looked at him, still too pale, skeletal thin. Pierce had done all of that. “It won’t be safe if he can testify against us.” 

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t want him killed.” 

Steve squeezed his arm. “I won’t let him hurt you again.” 

“That’s not your decision to make.” Bucky looked at Rumlow. “I don’t want him killed.”

Rumlow nodded, opened his mouth to answer, but Steve cut him off. 

Steve didn’t know whether it was the natural stubbornness in him, but hearing Bucky talk like that just made him all the more belligerent. “What else are we going to do, Buck? He’s going to be screaming for revenge after all of this.” 

Bucky gave him a look. “Do you always have to argue with me? I want to bring him down properly. He oughta stand trial.” 

“That’s not the way the world works, Buck-” 

“Can you two shut up for a minute?” 

They both looked at Rumlow, who was shaking his head. “Thought Rogers’ was bad, now there’s two of them.”

“Brock.” 

Rumlow was still shaking his head. “Look, I got reams of paperwork that’ll bring him down.” 

Steve sat back on his heels. “You… what?” 

Rumlow gestured over to Pierce. “He’s been crooked for years. Not like recently but… look, I don’t know if you’ll get him on this, but you’ll get him on the money he’s tied up in this place. Not a cent of it is legal.” 

“And you kept it all?” 

Rumlow frowned. “Of course I did. I needed insurance. I told you, he made a career out of blackmail. I needed a way out of it.”

“But-”

Rumlow gave a grunt. “Look, I don’t wanna get in the way of…” He waved his hand around, “this. I’ve got a headache that could split rocks, and someone back in town that I’d much rather have kissin’ my brow, if you get my drift. Clean up, get your arm seen to. I’ll send the fuzz up here, and tomorrow, we’ll see about takin’ the bastard down.”

“Brock,” Steve said, before Rumlow could make for the door, “thanks.” 

Rumlow looked about as uncomfortable as it was possible to look. “Yeah, well, I got a good sense of self preservation when I need it.” 

“That makes one of us,” Bucky said from Steve’s side, and Steve couldn’t help but start laughing again.


	9. Chapter 9

**1924**

“So, are you glad to be back, Buck?” Steve asked, as he placed the cardboard box he was carrying on the table. 

They didn’t have much stuff to move in the end. They’d never had much in the way of personal belongings, and they’d both moved around so much in the last few years that most of it had fallen away. They’d managed to pick a few things up which Becca and Abraham had kept for them, a couple of suitcases of clothes, and a few boxes of sentimental things from their parents, but that was about it. 

It didn’t matter. 

They were together. That was all that mattered. 

“It’s bigger than the old place,” Bucky said, setting down his own box from where it was balanced precariously on his hand. 

Bucky met his eye, and gave a small smile, to show Steve that he was joking. He didn’t smile easily anymore, looked sometimes like he had to force himself to remember. 

Steve loved every one he was graced with.

Steve was about to ask whether he wanted to start with the unpacking, when there was a knock at their door. It clicked open before either of them could answer. 

“Steven?” Abraham peered around the door. “Ah, very good. I have managed to catch you.” 

Steve smiled. “Only just. Good to see you.” 

He almost went for a hug, but stopped himself at the last minute. Certainly they were friends, but he was never quite sure where the boundaries were with Abraham. He was a man who navigated the world at a distance. 

Damn, it was good to see him though. 

He realised he was being rude. 

“Oh,” he gestured towards Bucky, “this is-”

“James Barnes,” Abraham interrupted, as he stepped into the room. He held up the newspapers in his hand. “I know. You have caused something of a sensation.”

A little of the colour drained from Bucky’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” Abraham said, before Steve could step in. “I did not intend to drag up unpleasant memories. I meant only that the newspapers love a scandal. The more lurid, the better.”

He dropped the papers onto the table, and Steve made out a blurred picture of Alexander Pierce, apparently taken several years ago. The headline blared ‘Psychiatrist arraigned in fraud scandal’. Beneath it Steve could make out several others saying the same, in more or less sensationalist wording. 

Steve guessed Pierce had been right in the end, there was nothing people liked more than to watch someone fall. 

Abraham still looked a little guilty. “Well, I wanted to see how you were settling in before I headed to the station.” 

Steve looked up from the papers. “Is that today?” 

Abraham sighed. “Unfortunately yes. I had wanted to have a little more time to reacquaint you with our systems, but I’m sure you’ll get back into the routine quickly enough.”

“Yes, but…” 

Steve knew that the Hydra needed to have someone competent running it, and there was no better doctor than Abraham, but he’d have much preferred to have him overseeing his work. Sure, Steve knew the Brooklyn State like the back of his hand, but to say his confidence had taken a hit was an understatement. 

“Steven,” Abraham smiled, “I would not have recommended you for this position if I did not believe that you were competent, and your former colleagues are very much anticipating your return. You will have no shortage of support, I assure you.” 

Steve was in no way convinced, and he’d never been able to fake it. 

Abraham laughed. “And I shall be just a telephone away if you should need advice.” 

“You’re having a telephone put in?”

Abraham smiled. “I think it is time that the Pierce Memorial Hospital entered the twentieth century.”

Steve laughed. “You got that right.” 

Abraham refastened his coat. “And now I think it is time I was leaving. Otherwise I will miss my train and make an unfortunate first impression.” 

Steve heard Bucky snort behind him. “As long as you don’t blackmail your patients, I think you’ll be swell.” 

Abraham laughed. “Steven always remarked upon your good humour! It has been a pleasure, Mr. Barnes. Steven.” 

He nodded his goodbyes as he left. 

The door closed into silence. 

“Well,” Bucky said eventually, “what a weird fella.” 

“He’s always like that.” 

Bucky was stood by the table, fingers trailing next to the papers. 

“You alright?” 

Bucky nodded, then forced a grin. “You talk about me, Stevie?” 

Steve crossed the room towards him. “Every day.” 

Bucky’s hand dropped onto his waist, warm and full of promise. “Hmmm. Don’t know if I like that. What’d ya say?” 

Bucky’s face was too close, close enough that Steve could feel his breath. 

“Only the good stuff.” 

Steve cupped his hands around Bucky’s hips, and for a second he thought he’d seriously misjudged his own strength, even with the weight Bucky had lost, but then Bucky got with the program and hefted himself up. His arm clasped around Steve’s shoulders, Steve’s hands beneath his thighs. 

He leaned down and pressed his lips against the corner of Steve’s. Steve’s heart did a skip jump in his chest, a little more than usual. 

“Come on,” he said, “I’ve waited six years to have you in my bed again.” 

“Well,” Bucky shifted, until Steve put him down again, clearly aware of the way Steve’s back was straining at his display of machismo, “you’d better not wait any more then.” 

Bucky smiled. It was a little lopsided, the way it had always been, and if they were harder won these days then Steve would treasure them all the more. 

“Come on,” he squeezed Bucky’s hand, tugged him towards the bedroom, “unpacking can wait.”


End file.
